


Roxanne

by eleanor_lavish



Series: Trucker 'Verse [2]
Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Truckers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-14
Updated: 2009-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:30:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Brendon is young and pretty and full of talent and Patrick's a pudgy, cranky truck driver.  Brendon belongs in New York, and Patrick is going to get him there, and then get back to his easy, one-man existence, free from Brendon's relentless chatter and the frustrating buzzing under Patrick's skin that seems to crop up when Brendon is around.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my Trucker AU _Maxine_ and takes place in the same universe. (Or, to be fair, _Maxine_ was the prequel to this.) No need to read one without the other, but it might help. Blame Patrick Stump's addiction to Trucker caps and Brendon Urie's mouth. Written for [](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=siryn99)[****](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=siryn99)(I won't even say "for her birthday" since this is so woefully late), and beta'd by the lovely[](http://schuyler.livejournal.com/profile)[ **schuyler**](http://schuyler.livejournal.com/). Thanks to both of them for the encouragement. And by encouragement, I of course mean _hounding_.  &heart

  
The Midlands Diner isn't really busy this time of year, just a handful of locals and truckers who know the route and appreciate the food. Patrick focuses on the piece of pretty decent lemon meringue pie in front of him. He's just past Vegas on the way to St. George, and if he plays his cards right, he can make it to the Colorado border by just after midnight before he has to pull off for some sleep and a quick shower at the mega truck stop near Grand Junction. He makes a quick mental to-do list - check in with Ray and Bob who should be a state ahead with their load, stop and pick up some vinyl he pre-ordered the last time he was through Denver - and motions Lois over to pay his tab.

"You want some fries to go, babe?" She asks, because Patrick's been coming here for nearly three years now, and it's no secret he comes back just for Dave's fries - thick and double fried, "just like over in Europe," Dave always beams, pushing his lank hair back off his creased face.

"Sure, why not," he tells her with a smile, and she taps her pen once on her notepad and hands over his check. The fries are already listed. Patrick mock-glares at her, but she's not paying attention.

"You know those two, right?" Lois asks, her voice light, but low enough that Patrick knows she's trying not to be overheard. Gabe is sitting over by the window, Bill pressed to his side. They're turned so they can't see Patrick, and he's surprised he missed them coming in. Not too upset - he wanted a quiet meal, and Gabe Saporta was never good for a quiet anything. All for the best anyway, he thinks, since they seem to already have a dinner companion - some barely legal kid with dark hair that falls over darker eyes, and a wide, inviting mouth. He's wearing nice jeans and a decent jacket, and his backpack has his initials sewn into it - B.B.U. - so Patrick's pretty sure the kid's not a junkie, or a hustler.

Patrick smirks a little and nods. "Yeah, I know them."

Lois frowns, glancing from her notepad to the booth where they're all sitting and back again, like she has something to say but isn't sure it's her place to say it. "Just," she starts, and Patrick gets the little flutter in his stomach that always comes right before he's thrust into something that isn't any of his fucking business. "That boy's been here most of the day, looking for a long-haul ride east. I think your friends are gonna give him a lift." Patrick doesn't need her to spell out the rest. She wants to know if Gabe can be trusted with a kid with a mouth like that. If the way Bill is twisting up his napkin, tearing it into tiny, even pieces with barely shaking fingers, signifies a nervous tick or a few too many hits of something guaranteed to keep him awake.

Patrick's known them a long time, but not well enough to know how to answer her. Maybe they're just being nice. But Gabe's smile has always been a little predatory and the kid is biting at his lower lip, still clutching his backpack with one hand, and _god damn it_. He hands Lois a twenty and stands up, gathering his messenger bag and his jacket. It's warm outside now, but by the time it hits midnight, the temperature is sure to drop twenty degrees. He thinks of the kid in Gabe and Bill's big rig cab, where there's nowhere to sleep but one big bed, and some bullshit line they'd feed him about "cuddling for warmth."

"Hey, kid," he says, loud enough to interrupt. Gabe might be pissed, but Patrick's never really cared what other people think of him. "Lois says you need a ride. I'm heading out now toward Denver, if you want in." The kid looks up, startled, and opens his mouth before closing it quickly and blinking up at him.

Gabe furrows his brow a little in confusion. "Hey, dude," he says with a lopsided grin. "It's cool. Brendon was just going to ride with us."

"Whatever, man," Patrick shrugs, but his eyes cut to the kid - Brendon - when he adds, "I'm just heading out now, and I know you and Bill usually like to get in a little Vegas action when you're in town." Brendon stays silent, looking back and forth between them like he's missing something.

"Fuck, I love Vegas," Bill says, eyes all pupil, and Patrick nods his head toward the door. He doesn't really want a fucking passenger, especially one who appears to possibly be functionally retarded, but he rides alone so it's easy to mention to the kid that he's got an extra seat.

"Yeah, okay, t-thank you," Brendon says, not visibly relieved. Patrick realizes the kid doesn't know him from Adam, so who's to say he's still not going to get molested in his sleep. Whatever, Patrick thinks. At least _he_ knows Brendon's not going to be getting his first lesson in truck stop hustler economics this evening. Brendon follows him to the door, clutching his backpack to his chest.

Lois hands him a big paper bag on the way out, and it's heavier than normal. "Plenty in there for two," she says with a nod. Lois knows him way too fucking well.

*

Brendon's quiet for the first hour or so, edgy, his knee bouncing so fast that it's distracting. "Hey, kid," he says, glancing at Brendon's knee but trying to keep his voice from sounding too sharp.

"Sorry," Brendon says and stops immediately, but his fingers fold over his knee, digging in hard as a reminder. "Hey, so," Brendon says a moment later, clearing his throat. "What's your name?

"What?" Patrick asks, because he had to have introduced himself. His people skills aren't _that_ rusty. But no, when he thinks about it, he realizes Brendon came along without even shaking Patrick's hand. "Whoa, sorry," he says, and he genuinely is. "Patrick. Patrick Stumph, out of Chicago," he adds, because that's the question he usually gets next. He holds out his right hand, the left still wrapped firmly around the steering wheel, and Brendon shakes it. He's smiling now, a warm, wide grin that Patrick can't help but mimic.

"Brendon Urie," the kid says. "And thanks for the ride."

"No problem," Patrick nods, eyes focusing back on the road. They'll hit Colorado in a few hours, and Patrick isn't sure what happens then. "Hey, how far are you headed?" he asks, and Brendon looks quickly out the passenger window, into the darkness.

"Don't know," he says. "New York, I think."

Patrick clenches his jaw. He had a feeling the kid was a runaway, but it sucks to have it confirmed. It's none of his business, though, unless... "Hey, how old are you?" Patrick asks. The kid looks young, but Patrick is nearly twenty-three and still gets carded at R-rated movies, so he isn't going to assume anything.

"Just turned eighteen," Brendon replies, and there's an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice that Patrick doesn't mention. Sometimes a guy has his own shit going on, and Patrick can respect that. Patrick's not sure Brendon's telling the truth, either, but he doesn't seem like the kind of kid who will get him in trouble. He lets it go.

"New York's a cool town," Patrick says, even though he'll always prefer Chicago. Brendon nods. The iPod shuffles up some early Prince, and Patrick smiles out the windshield. He sings along absently to the first few lines, not really realizing he's doing it until Brendon joins in, his voice quiet but clear, taking the low parts when Patrick goes high. Patrick grins over at him, and Brendon shrugs.

"I like music," he says, and Patrick nods.

"Me too." Pete would probably laugh himself stupid at the understatement; Patrick's got four 80-gig iPods in his center console, and a laptop full of his own remixes, plus a few original songs that Patrick hasn't shown a soul, save Pete. But Brendon's fingers move along his thigh like he's picking out phantom piano chords and Patrick thinks maybe Brendon gets it.

When they get to the truck stop, Patrick pulls into a spot and Brendon bites his lip, unsure. _He's pretty_ , Patrick thinks, and pretty will get Brendon to New York, but it might also get him into trouble. "I don't usually get a room--" Patrick starts, and Brendon shakes his head, eyes wide.

"No, that's. I'll be fine," he says. "Thank you--"

" _But_ ," Patrick cuts in, already sighing at his own internal nice guy, "you can crash in here if you want. That seat reclines pretty much all the way." Brendon just blinks at him for a second. "I can get you to Chicago, at least," Patrick adds, and Brendon swallows hard.

"That's. Wow, thank you. That would be great," he says quietly, polite, like he was raised up with real manners. Patrick just tugs on the rim of his hat and climbs down from the cab, grabbing his duffel.

"Taking a quick shower," he says, and doesn't give Brendon a chance to reply. "I'll pick up some snacks."

By the time he gets back, Brendon is already asleep, knees curled up in the soft leather seat, his fingers still curled around the straps of his backpack. He doesn't look old enough to be out of high school, and Patrick frowns a little, trying to turn off his need for more answers about this kid, about why he's letting Brendon get under his skin. He's met a dozen Brendons in the last few years - some find their way home, some not, but Patrick's no one's babysitter and he can't let them all be his problem. He does toss a blanket over Brendon before climbing in the back and passing out in his small bed.

*

"Come in, Honky Tonk Man, this is the Thin White Duke!" The CB crackles to life around Sterling, and Patrick rolls his eyes.

"No fucking way," he says into the receiver, and notices Brendon watching him curiously. "You do NOT get to be Bowie. In no actual universe will that ever happen, Pete."

Brendon stifles a laugh. "Aw, come on," Pete cajoles. "It's either that or you get to be DJ Jazzy Patrick and I'm the Fresh Prince of Wilmette."

Patrick snorts. "Way more fitting. I'm about to enter the wide expanse of Nebraska, man. Am I passing you soon?"

"Yep," Pete voice jumps through the speakers. "Just hit the border, but it's a quickie to Denver. Ray said you were in the area, so I figured I could bother you while you were around." He can hear the slight tinge of mania in Pete's voice, and knows Pete hasn't slept in a day or so. Patrick has stopped worrying about him, but he doesn't have the energy needed to keep up with Pete when he's in this kind of mood.

"Here," he says without thinking. "Talk to Brendon. I'm giving him a ride to Chicago this run."

Brendon startles a little when Patrick hands him the receiver. "Press to talk, release to listen," Patrick says. "With Pete, mostly it's release to listen."

Brendon presses the button down. "Hi?" he says tentatively, and when he releases, Pete's reply is instant and excited.

"Oh, wow, Patrick _never_ brings boys home!" he says with an evil cackle and Patrick groans. "You must be really hot, or else give really great head."

"Ignore him," Patrick mutters, and Brendon bites his lip.

"Both, actually," he replies. Patrick laughs, loud and surprised. "But Patrick's wooing me with his best of Al Green playlist. We're taking it slow." Brendon sings a few lines of 'Simply Beautiful' and Patrick turns the music down a little, suddenly embarrassed.

"Patrick always takes it slow," Pete says. "He's got no sense of when to shut up and put out. If your face is as hot has your voice, though, he's a total moron for not following through already."

Patrick's eyes flick over to see a blush high on Brendon's cheeks. "Well, too bad you'll only get to see me at 55 miles an hour."

Pete whoops. "That's a shame. Maybe Patrick can take some pictures. I know the boys in Jersey need some jerk off material."

"Hey, Patrick's a gentleman," Brendon says, voice full of mock-annoyance. "Besides, porn would ruin my modeling career."

"Oh, I will take your headshots _any time_ ," Pete drawls, and Patrick is laughing hard enough that he almost misses Pete's distinctive yellow cab coming his way. "Smile, baby!" Pete says through the CB and Brendon waves as Patrick and Pete honk at each other. Brendon and Pete flirt shamelessly until Pete's out of range, and Brendon puts the receiver back, still blushing faintly, smiling at his hands.

"Sorry about that," he says, shrugging sheepishly, and Patrick just shakes his head.

"Hey, don't apologize. It's not often Pete can find someone who can keep up with his randomness. I think he's in love already. Seriously, he'll be all over you if we catch him in Chicago." Brendon laughs. "So," he says a second later. Brendon is quiet again, and Patrick is in the mood to talk for once. "Modeling, huh?"

"Oh, God, no," Brendon laughs, burying his face in his hands. "I'm not model material, obviously." Patrick doesn't say anything, but he thinks Brendon is totally model material. Though maybe more for the kinds of magazines Patrick picks up on lonely evenings, and less for real, actual modeling. Or maybe Patrick's just a little too focused on Brendon's mouth, on his lean fingers. "I figure I can get a job at Starbucks or something, and see what happens."

"Hmm," Patrick replies, and he stops himself from asking about Brendon's past, about why he's in such a damn hurry to leave Vegas. "You play piano?" he asks instead, because music is something he knows is common ground already, something he can talk about for hours without worrying about his conscience interfering.

"Ten years," Brendon says. "Drums too, and guitar, trumpet, a little sax."

"You're a one-man jazz band," Patrick laughs, impressed. He never got much past drums and guitar, a little keyboard, but he's always wanted to try. "I wish I'd taken the time to learn the brass section," he says wistfully, and they're off and running for nearly an hour about the importance of a decent horn section in jazz, and why ska failed as a genre. By the time Patrick pulls over at the stop in Lexington, they've moved on to the relative douchiness of playing an upright bass in a non-jazz setting. Brendon sees some room for growth; Patrick thinks you should just learn the damn bass guitar.

"This is the best diner in Nebraska," Patrick tells Brendon sagely as they walk toward the doors.

"Hey, I'll meet you in there?" Brendon says, distracted, and Patrick watches as he jogs toward a mailbox and rifles through his backpack, pulling out a postcard and dropping it in. Patrick smiles a little, glad the kid is keeping contact with someone, somewhere, but then Brendon doesn't turn around right away, takes a deep breath, then another one, and Patrick's stomach tightens again with the thought that he knows next to nothing about this kid, other than his genius musical IQ. _He'd be a waste at Starbucks,_ Patrick thinks, but he can hear Pete's voice telling him the same thing about himself, stuck day in and day out in his truck, composing songs in his head that no one will ever hear. He pushes the thought away and walks into the cool air conditioning of the restaurant.

*

Brendon pays for his own meals. Patrick isn't above wondering where he got it, but Brendon always orders the cheapest thing on the menu and pays for it from a roll of bills he keeps tucked deep in his front pocket. The roll isn't huge, made up of some twenties and a bunch of tens, and Patrick starts ordering more than he needs and foisting half of it on Brendon. Patrick's had enough lean months to know what rationing looks like, and he's grateful that the only objection he ever gets from Brendon is a flush on his cheeks when Patrick says "Seriously, the portions here are just stupid," and shovels half his fries onto Brendon's plate, next to his single fried egg.

Susan, the waitress in Avoca, coos over Brendon like he's a baby animal of some sort, some rare species that Patrick's discovered on the road. "Where'd you get this one?" she says to Patrick, a sly lilt to her voice, and Patrick tugs his hat lower and tries not to glare at either of them.

"Mail order, all the way from Ukraine," Brendon says with a ridiculous accent, and slides his arm around Patrick's shoulders, leaning in close. Susan makes a shocked little sound and Patrick puts his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

"His English isn't great," he manages, and Brendon just bites his lip and blinks at him. "But he really loves pancakes."

"Pancake is food, da? Or is dat another sex thing?" he says, and Patrick loses it, laughing hard enough that Susan huffs and wanders off. She doesn't bring them coffee, but it's totally worth it.

"Great, now she's going to add me to 'no fly' list. There goes any chance of getting into that apron," Patrick says, still grinning, because Brendon is kind of hilarious and random and adorable, and Patrick finds himself grinning around him a lot.

"I-I'm... that's. I'm sorry?" Brendon says, eyes wide, like he suddenly remembered something awful. "I'll totally apologize to her --"

"God, kid, don't even worry about it. Susan is most definitely not my type." Patrick leans back in the booth and Brendon bites his lip, a slight worried frown creasing his forehead. He catches the kid watching him a few times as they eat, eyes darting from his hands to his throat to the top of his head. Patrick tugs at the brim of his cap and frowns at his plate. "Seriously, Bren, relax. You're giving me a complex."

Brendon's cheeks flush and his eyes dart back to his own plate. "Sorry," he breathes, but Patrick can feel the tension radiating off of him. He reaches over to squeeze Brendon's knee. The gesture was supposed to be soothing, reassuring, but Brendon jumps a little at the touch and Patrick catches his eyes for a long moment. There's something there Patrick can't quite pinpoint - it could be fear, or confusion, or... something else, something Patrick hasn't seen in a long fucking time. He pulls his hand away and clears his throat.

"Finish your hot dog," he says, forcing a smile, and Brendon finally eats.

Patrick wishes he could push on through to Chicago that night but his log is full, and Brendon has to make two bathroom stops along the way, Patrick tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel while he waits. One time, he comes back just a little flushed and Patrick wonders if he was doing more than just using the bathroom. No one else came out before him, Patrick's pretty sure, and maybe... Patrick remembers being eighteen, and horny all the time (as opposed to the solid seventy percent he's used to these days), and figures he can't blame the kid, not really, but he hasn't jerked off in three days either, and the least Brendon could do was give him a heads up and twenty minutes of alone time. Usually Patrick doesn't _need_ to jerk off every day, but usually there isn't a pretty boy with a knowledge of acoustics and a wide, wet mouth sitting three feet from him.

Not that Patrick would be jerking off _to_ Brendon. Just. It's hard, being around him. He sighs at his own pun.

Patrick usually gets a hotel room at this place near Des Moines - they're cheap and have decent showers and clean-ish linens - but he's afraid Brendon will insist on chipping in for half the room. They spend another night in the cab, Brendon curled up in the passenger seat. Brendon's only been in his truck for two days, but his stuff is littered across the dash, his iPod and flip-flops and a mystery paperback he'd found in a truckstop bathroom. Patrick frowns a little as he slides off his shirt and jeans, pulling on a t-shirt to sleep in and glancing over his shoulder to make sure Brendon is still asleep. Patrick isn't used to people being in his space - he's been doing this for a long time, all by himself, and he knows he's better off that way. He's grumpy already, and Brendon is a generally good kid, but Patrick's glad they hit Chicago tomorrow.

He doesn't want Brendon to remember him as the dick who yelled at him about keeping his half-eaten candy bars away from the gear shift.

But that's really gross.

*

They pull into Chicago around noon the next day. Patrick's been hauling high end furniture for a place out of LA this trip. He doesn't really want to drop Brendon at the nearest bus station, even though that's probably the best idea. Instead, when Brendon offers to help him with the unload, he accepts. It takes them three hours, Brendon and Patrick gently hauling huge cedar cabinets to the lift before handing them off to the guys hired by the design firm to move them into the showroom. They're union guys, so they won't touch anything until it's off the truck; instead they stand in the parking lot with their arms crossed, bitching about how long it's taking Brendon and Patrick to get everything unloaded. Brendon's stronger than he looks, and by the end, Patrick's really grateful he had the help.

They sit on the ramp, feet dangling off the ground, and watch the union guys struggle with the last piece – an armoire with built in shelves that has to weigh four hundred pounds. One of the guys slips a little and Brendon barely holds back a snort of amusement as the piece nearly topples onto him. Patrick bumps their shoulders together and grins. "You ready to head out?" he asks, and Brendon's smile slips a little.

"Yeah, sure," Brendon replies, his voice laced with forced cheer. "Bet you're ready to get home."

"Yeah," Patrick says. He is – he hasn't been back through Chicago in three weeks, and he knows his mom is probably already cooking- chicken and dumplings, or beef stew, something warm and hearty, destined to put more meat on his already ample bones. He thinks about Brendon at the diner this morning, the way he dug into Patrick's leftover pancakes, the roll of twenties in his pocket that has to last him for god only knows how long. "You want to come to dinner at my mom's?" he asks before he can over-think it. "Nothing fancy, just—"

"I don't want to impose," Brendon says, but he's biting his lip in a way that Patrick has already come to know means he's only being polite.

"Don't be an idiot," Patrick says more gruffly than he means to, and Brendon blinks at him.

"Sure," he says softly. "Thanks."

They close up the truck and climb back in the cab. Brendon stays quiet for the whole ride, through Patrick's phone call to his mom, and another to Gerard to tell him he's done for the day. When they pull up in front of Patrick's house, Brendon says "After dinner you can just -"

"After dinner I can just stick you in the guest room and go to bed. We'll check the bus schedule in the morning," Patrick pulls his seat belt off and grabs his duffel bag from behind his seat. "Unless you're in a hurry to go tonight?"

Brendon swallows and Patrick pretends not to notice the way he sniffles a little. "No, that sounds like a plan," he says.

"Good," Patrick says brusquely, and doesn't wait for Brendon as he walks up the driveway. His mom is already opening the door, arms crossed and smiling.

"You know the neighbors hate it when you park that thing there," she says with a shake of her head, and Patrick hugs her tight.

  
"Yeah, well, you refuse to let me knock down the garage and extend the driveway, so," he replies and she rolls her eyes and laughs. He can tell when she catches sight of Brendon behind him, walking slowly up the drive with his backpack slung over his shoulder.

"This must be Brendon?" His mom cuts her eyes over to him, narrowed enough that Patrick knows he'll have some explaining to do later, but when she looks at Brendon she just smiles. "Come on, dinner's almost ready."

*

Patrick doesn't really live at his mom's. Well, he _does_ , but he mostly thinks of his truck as home - his bed is there, his clothes, his _life_. His routine centers around living in a eight-by-ten foot box, eating microwave meals and watching movies on his laptop. He's got friends and family, but he's better at living on his own. That way no one has to put up with his random taste in music, or his short temper. He can wear whatever stupid hats he wants, and sing along to his ipod as loud as he likes.

He likes that he can come back here, though, to his childhood home in Chicago, and have his mom serve him beef stew with potatoes, but no gross cooked carrots, and that he can fall asleep staring at his old Bowie posters. He guesses this is kind of what college kids feel like when they come home for breaks, and Patrick certainly brings enough dirty laundry with him that his mom makes the comparison too. Patrick wasn't ever college-bound, though. He's too restless, too argumentative. His parents didn't have the money to send him when he graduated from high school, and Patrick took a quick local trucking course for fast summer cash when he was eighteen. That was almost five years ago. He makes enough now that he owns his own truck, and he could start putting away money for school if he wanted to. Ray and Pete both take college classes online, and Patrick's thought about it. There just isn't anything else he can think of that he'd rather be doing, other than playing music, and he's pretty sure you can't get a degree in that online.

"Why don't you show Brendon where he's sleeping?" his mom says as they're clearing the table. She was cool enough not to ask too many questions of Brendon during dinner. He clammed up when she asked about his parents, but visibly relaxed when he talked about turning eighteen last month, and the small party he'd had at one of the older casinos, how anticlimactic it was to just be able to walk through the blinking machines on the floor. She wants more answers, Patrick can tell, but he isn't sure what to tell her.

Brendon follows him down the stairs to the finished basement. There's a futon against the back wall, and the room is warm from the big heater in the corner. Patrick flicks the lights on and goes puttering through the clean laundry pile for some sheets and a blanket, but when he turns around, Brendon's eyes are wide, sweeping over the other side of the room. "Oh, hey, you wanna play?" Patrick asks, because he sometimes forgets they're there. Patrick has a few small Taylors and a Gibson acoustic he found for a steal in Milwaukee. His Fender is hanging on the wall, the body beat up like someone had loved it for a long time before Patrick found it in a small shop in North Carolina. He has a full drum kit set up too, and a small keyboard he uses mainly for hooking up to his laptop to test out ideas. His record collection lines the wall, some spilling out onto piles on the floor. He used to dream about this room when he was on the road, when he still missed playing music like he was missing a limb. He feels that less these days, and he's not sure he likes it any better this way.

"What?" Brendon says, turning around. "No, that's. It's cool."

Patrick grins at him and dumps the clean linens on the bed. "Seriously, let me hear you play, hotshot," he goads, and Brendon picks up one of the Taylors carefully, tunes it by ear while Patrick settles behind the kit. He never has anyone to jam with unless he and Joe are home at the same time, or he's willing to sit through Pete butchering hits of the 90's.

"What do you want to try?" Brendon asks, almost shy, but Patrick can see his fingers already itching on the strings, eager to play even if Brendon isn't sure.

"Al Green?" Patrick tries, because Brendon's told him he knows the guitar part to _Let's Stay Together_ , and Brendon gets the opening riff off before Patrick can even think to count them in. It's the Pixies after that, and some early Morrissey, and then Stix, and a little Matchbox 20. ("But only because I like you," Patrick gripes.). Brendon stumbles, laughing, through some Johnny Cash, and Patrick manages to keep up when Brendon decides to sing some Dolly Parton. ("Who doesn't love Dolly, come on!" he'd chided when Patrick complained.) By the time they get tired enough to take a break, it's past midnight. Patrick is sweaty and gross, and Brendon isn't much better off, and they collapse on the futon, still arguing about whether Dolly was more bluegrass than country.

Patrick wakes up a few hours later and Brendon is curled on his side, his fingers brushing the inside of Patrick's arm. He should get up and go upstairs, get into his own bed, but he's so tired that all he can manage is the ten feet to the door where he flips off the light. He climbs back on the futon and pulls the blanket over both of them. Brendon makes a noise and shifts closer. His lips are parted slightly, and his eyelashes lay dark across his cheeks. Patrick closes his eyes, but he doesn't get back to sleep for a while, wondering where Brendon came from, what made him leave behind everything he'd ever known and trust a stranger to drive him to a city he's never seen outside of television. It must have been something bad, Patrick thinks, something big enough that Patrick feels guilty even thinking about it. _It's his own shit, he'll tell you if he wants to,_ he tells himself firmly, but he reaches his arm out a little, just so he can feel the press of Brendon's shoulder nearby, and it makes him feel a little better.

*

Patrick's mom is reading on the living room couch when he drags himself upstairs the next morning. Brendon is still passed out cold. His mom gives him a look and Patrick rolls his eyes and waves his hands, too tired to manage the words _it's not what you think_. His mom shakes her head, but she's smiling. "Andy called," she says. "Pete's back tonight, and there's a party. You want me to make cookies?"

"Mom," Patrick grins, because _cookies_ , but then his stomach rumbles. His mom's cookies are pretty amazing. "If you want to," he says noncommittally, and she laughs.

"I can make breakfast, but I figured you'd want to take your new friend to Glenn's for brunch." She looks up from her book, eyes questioning, and Patrick leans in to kiss her cheek.

"I'm going to shower, then I'll get the kid up and make sure he's fed. I don't need you to take care of my strays."

She looks at him, quiet and serious for a moment. "He looks like he could use a little taking care of," she says quietly.

It's not that it's not _true_ ; Brendon's clearly lost and trying not to show it. Patrick's just not sure he's the kind of guy who can help. He's not a people person, not really, and his idea of a friendly shoulder is a slap to the back of the head and a 'snap out of it!'. This could be a product of a long friendship with Pete Wentz, but Patrick just doesn't feel much like the caretaker _type_. "He's heading to New York, mom," he says, just as quiet, his eyes cutting to the door down to the music room. "He's not a minor, and he's a smart kid."

She sighs, but not unkindly. "Do you know why he's not at home? He's barely out of high school, and he clearly comes from some money. People are probably worried sick about him." Patrick knows that she worries sick about him sometimes too, when he's on a long run in bad weather, or when she hasn't seen his face in a while. He squeezes her hand.

"I didn't ask," he says with a sheepish shrug. It's none of his business, he tells himself, but he's also not sure he can handle whatever truth Brendon's carrying around. Right now, it just feels like Patrick's lucked into a friend for his drive. His cab is going to be really quiet once Brendon gets on a bus.

"Don't you have to head to Jersey in a few days?" she asks, like she's reading his mind. "Brendon's welcome to hang out here until you guys have to go." Patrick narrows his eyes at her. She just grins at him, eyes tired, and Patrick knows she spent part of last night awake and worrying too.

"You're a meddlesome woman," he mutters, but she just smiles wider.

"You're not the tough guy you think you are," she retorts, and he sighs.

"Showering now," he says, cutting off the rest of the conversation, but he's damn certain she won't let him take Brendon anywhere near a bus depot. He makes a mental note to call Mikey and see what the time frame is for his check-in. He hasn't spent any time in New York City proper for a while, and maybe Brendon could use a hand finding a place to stay.

*

Brendon looks at him nervously, hands smoothing down the front of his t-shirt as Patrick grins and knocks loudly on the door. They're at Hurley and Mixon's place, and the party is loud enough to be heard down the block. "You sure this is cool?" Brendon asks for the third time and Patrick just snorts.

"You're fine. It's not like this is a frat --"

But he's cut off when the door flies open wide and Pete flings himself at Patrick. He's shirtless and carrying two beers, one of which drips down the back of Patrick's jacket. "PATRICK STUMPH!" Pete yells in his ear. "I MISSED YOU, YOU SAUCY BITCH!" Patrick winces and catches a glimpse of Brendon's face over Pete's shoulder. Brendon's eyes are huge, but he's biting his lip to keep from laughing.

"Fuck you, now I'm deaf," Patrick growls as he shoves Pete mostly off of him. Pete smacks a kiss to his cheek before looking up.

"Oh, shit, you brought your little friend," he says, his grin getting wider as he spots Brendon standing near the railing. "My, my, Brendon. I have to say, if you're really interested in modeling, I seriously have a friend who can take some pictures..." He sidles up to Brendon and hands over one of the beers.

"Oh, I don't," he starts but Patrick tugs his hat down and smacks Pete in the side.

"Don't ever listen to this man," Patrick says with just a hint of 'no seriously, I'm not kidding' in his voice. Their easy banter aside, Pete would eat Brendon alive, and Patrick's not up for dealing with _that_ tonight. Or ever.

"You got it boss." Brendon's tiny smile gets lost as he takes a sip of his beer. Pete looks back and forth between them for a moment, and Patrick doesn't let Pete catch his eyes.

"You want to go meet some people?" Patrick asks, and Brendon shrugs in agreement. Patrick leaves Pete on the porch, still watching them with more interest than Patrick's okay with. It's weird, walking into Andy's place with Brendon. People are looking, he realizes, and Patrick feels just a little self-conscious. He hasn't had a new friend that he didn't meet through Pete, or through WayRo Shipping, in... possibly ever, and it's kind of nice, having Brendon at his side, not having to share him the way he always shares Pete, or Joe. He steers Brendon through the crowd with a hand on the small of his back, making sure he avoids the trick hallways that lead to nowhere, the couple making out under the staircase. Patrick gets himself a drink and introduces Brendon around to Bob Morris and Sean and Ryan and Kage, local boys he keeps in touch with mainly through Andy and Matt and their constant need to have their house filled with friends. Brendon shakes everyone's hand and smiles and jokes, but sticks pretty tight to Patrick's side.

They make it to the den in time to see Pete shotgun a decent hit from a girl with a septum piercing, and Patrick rolls his eyes. He notices Pete nod to Matt, and then sees Mixon whisper in Andy's ear, eyes cutting to Brendon and Patrick across the room. Andy's eyebrows shoot up, and Mix gives Patrick a thumbs up, grin wide and amused. Patrick flips them off.

"What's up?" Andy says when they reach the back wall. Matt leans in and gives Patrick a quick hug.

"Not much. Party's pretty good," Patrick replies. "Guys, this is Brendon. He's from Vegas."

Brendon smiles at them, reaches out to shake their hands. Patrick can feel him at his side, warm and just a little anxious. "Hi," he says shyly. It's reminiscent of the Brendon he met in Nevada, full of a quiet, nervous energy, watchful and distracted all at once.

"Hey, good to meet you," Matt says warmly. Andy just tilts his head to one side, watchful. "You new to town?"

"No, I'm just passing through," Brendon answers. "Heading to New York. Patrick was cool enough to give me a ride this far."

"Ah," Mix says, raising his eyebrows a little at Andy. Andy nods, like they're already in the middle of a conversation. Patrick bristles. _Fucking Pete and his fucking big mouth_ , he thinks. "You've been keeping our Patrick company, huh?"

"Hey, we're going to grab more drinks," Patrick says curtly, and drags Brendon to the keg across the room, fingers warm on his elbow. He's not sure what exactly Pete has been telling his loser friends about Brendon, but clearly they have been drawing really stupid conclusions. Brendon's frowning a little, fingers tight around his red plastic cup. Andy and Mixon are standing closer now, and Patrick glares in their direction once before turning to see Brendon watching them too. He sees when Brendon notices Mix's hand, resting lightly on Andy's lower back, pinky finger slipped discreetly through a belt loop. Brendon's cheeks flush a little, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

"Are they...," he asks, voice low and a little unsure, and Patrick glances back to see Andy grinning at whatever Mixon is saying, eyes crinkling with amusement behind his glasses, fingers light on Matt's wrist.

"Yeah, almost two years," he says with a smile. They're dicks, but they're _his_ dicks, and Patrick can't deny how confusingly perfect they are for each other.

Brendon bites his lip, and Patrick can't help but notice Brendon's eyes following Mix and Andy around the room for the rest of the night.

They stay just long enough for Patrick to see a few people, and for Brendon to have enough warm beer that he's leaning heavily into Patrick's side on the couch. Pete is on Patrick's other side talking a mile a minute about a new band he heard in Seattle. He stops mid-sentence and grins when Brendon's head hits Patrick's shoulder with a small thump. "Kid's all tuckered out," he laughs. "You should get him home to bed," he adds slyly.

Patrick sighs. "It's not like that," he whispers. "He's barely eighteen."

"Yeah, and you're so ancient," Pete scoffs, and Patrick shushes him. Brendon is warm and heavy, pressed into his side, and Patrick tamps down a sudden urge to tuck an arm around him, pull him closer. "He's cute, 'Trick. He likes you."

"It's not going to happen," Patrick says with a heavy certainty. Brendon is young and pretty and full of talent and Patrick's a pudgy, cranky truck driver. Brendon belongs in New York, and Patrick is going to get him there, and then get back to his easy, one-man existence, free from Brendon's relentless chatter and the frustrating buzzing under Patrick's skin that seems to crop up when Brendon is around.

"Patrick--," Pete starts, and Patrick shakes his head.

"What, am I going to build him a puppy crate for my cab? Drive him around until he gets bored to death, or decides he'd rather kill me with his bare hands rather than listen to another three hours of Prince bootlegs?"

"Prince's cool," Brendon mumbles from Patrick's shoulder and Pete laughs. Patrick can feel the blush creep over his cheeks, unsure how much Brendon heard, how much he understood in his tipsy state.

"Hey, let's get out of here," Patrick says, pushing Brendon gently off him. Brendon blinks up at him and smiles. He naps the whole drive back to Patrick's mom's, and then they're both extra quiet, tiptoeing into the house and down the stairs to the basement.

"Your friends are really nice," Brendon says sleepily as Patrick tosses him a few pillows.

"Yeah, they're okay," Patrick says with a shrug and a smile and throws a blanket over Brendon's body, stripped down to nothing but boxers and an Old Navy t-shirt.

"Thanks," Brendon says quietly and Patrick nods. He takes a step toward the door, to turn off the light and head up to fall into his own bed, but Brendon's fingers snag in the fabric of his jeans, curling lightly around his knee. When he looks down, Brendon is looking up at him with wide, earnest eyes. "No, just. Thank you. For all of this."

Patrick runs a hand through Brendon's wild, dark hair and tries to ignore the way his heart is beating quicker in his chest. "You're welcome," he manages, and slips out of Brendon's grasp before he does something monumentally stupid, like let his thumb slide over Brendon's plump lower lip.

 _Stupid Pete, planting fucking ideas in my head_ , he thinks, because it's always easiest to blame Pete when Patrick's life threatens to tumble out of control.


	2. Chapter 2

Brendon seems a little surprised when they don't go to the bus depot the next morning either, and Patrick calls Gerard to push his visit up a day. Brendon's sitting on his mom's couch with a bowl of cereal in his lap, skin still shimmering from his shower, hair sticking up in damp shocks, and Patrick's eyes are fixed on his mouth as he slides the spoon from his lips. "'Trick?" Gerard says in his ear, like it's not the first time he's said it, and Patrick totally has to get the hell to New York as soon as possible, for his own good, and Brendon's.

"Yeah, hey. Can you guys use me Thursday?" he asks, and he can hear Gerard rustling through paperwork.

"We have room for you, but the departure date isn't until Saturday. Come on up, though, and you can crash with me and Frank! We haven't hung out in fucking ages, man." Patrick thinks this is a capital fucking plan - he'll have enough time to get Brendon into Manhattan and then back down for some well-deserved drinking and bitching with some old friends. And hell, if Frank still has that exhibitionist streak, maybe he'll even be able to work off a trace of this sexual frustration he's built up.

"See you in a few days," he says with a smile, and when he hangs up, Brendon is watching him.

"You're leaving?" he asks, voice small and unsure. Patrick drops on the couch next to him and tips his head back into the cushions.

"Yeah - gonna to check in with my boss before my next big run. Get the rig a once-over, do some paperwork, that sort of thing."

Brendon nods and turns his head back to the television. His fingers are tight around his bowl.

"It's out in north Jersey," Patrick says. "Thought I could just drop you there, if you want."

There's a quick, sharp inhale from Brendon before he whips his head around. "You don't. That's..."

"Unless you'd rather do Greyhound?" Patrick asks, and he can't help the grin tugging at the side of his mouth.

"No! But you don't have do this." Brendon is staring at him, eyes shining a little, like he can't believe Patrick is being this nice to him when all Patrick is really doing is letting the kid sit in an otherwise empty chair for fifteen hours. Patrick bumps their shoulders together.

"I know. Finish your breakfast, then we're going to the Pier."

*

The ride to Jersey is quick and painless, or mostly so. Brendon drops another postcard in the mail outside Pittsburgh, a few tiny lines of scrawl on the back of a card that advertises "Amish Country". He doesn't say who it's for, but Patrick sees the tight, pinched look on his face, and doesn't push.

As the mile markers tick by, Brendon gets quieter and more fidgety, and Patrick's fingers get tighter on the steering wheel. They're both thinking about Brendon's trip into the great unknown, and Patrick's stomach hurts with the kind of worry he hasn't felt since before Pete was mostly clean. But Brendon's smart, he reminds himself, and Brendon got this far on his own, and he'll do fine in the city - find a roommate on Craigslist and get a job at a coffee shop and maybe play a little on the side. Patrick thinks of the old Taylor that Brendon had played so well in his basement and kicks himself for not packing it up as a present. Patrick's certainly not getting any use out of it.

They pull into Belleville after dark and Patrick parks the truck in the expansive lot at WayRo. There's still a light on in the office, which means Gerard waited up for him. He didn't tell Gerard about Brendon - it's technically against the rules for Brendon to ride with him - but between Pete and Mikey, he's sure it's not a secret. "You want to come meet some folks? Figure we can crash out at Gerard and Frank's place," he says, because he's not going to just drop Brendon on a train in the city at this hour.

Brendon takes a deep breath and nods. "Big day tomorrow," he says, voice tight but with a forced smile - and _man_ , Patrick is starting to hate those. Patrick doesn't want Brendon to have a big day tomorrow. He wants Brendon to climb back in his truck tomorrow and pepper him with questions about where they're going and why, and eat all his green Skittles, and fall asleep with his fingers curled around Patrick's hip.

"Yeah, big day," he replies, and climbs down to the asphalt before Brendon can says something that makes him feel worse, like "thank you".

*

Gerard and Frank are more than fine with Patrick and Brendon staying with them, and Patrick remembers a second too late that Frank is a gossip and Gerard is a matchmaker. (He still pats himself on the back over the whole situation with Ray and Bob, even though that was so not his doing.) They get to Frank and Gerard's creaky suburban house around ten o'clock and Frank offers to give Brendon the grand tour (which mostly means a peek at Gerard's attic studio, and a walk through the basement "Fear Garden", a mini-scarefest they put up one year for Frank's birthday and never took down. Patrick almost warns Brendon about the trip wire and the plastic spider, but Frank gives him a wide-eyed look of horror when he opens his mouth. Frank takes the Fear Garden very seriously.)

"So," Gerard starts as he and Patrick wander into the kitchen to call for a pizza delivery. "What's the story?"

"No story," Patrick says firmly, because there isn't. "He was heading to New York, I gave him a lift. Sorry about that," he adds as an afterthought, because Gerard _is_ his boss. Gerard waves him off.

"No, who cares about that. Where did he _come from_ , is there some sort of _tragic story_ there?" Gerard loves tragic stories, preferably ones with ax murderers in them. While Patrick's pretty sure Brendon's story doesn't include any axes, it's probably not all that pretty. But that's all the more reason for Patrick to keep his nose out of it. He shrugs and reaches for a can of Sprite - Frank and Gerard don't keep alcohol in the house anymore, he remembers - and Gerard huffs in annoyance. "You just spent a week with this kid," Gerard says, and _whoa_ , has it only been a week? Patrick feels like he's known Brendon way longer. "And you can't tell me anything about him?"

"He prefers Sarah Vaughn to Billie Holiday," Patrick says with a grin. "And he hates broccoli."

"Great, excellent," Gerard mutters. "Pete said--"

"Oh, whoa," Patrick interrupts. "Don't start listening to Pete _now_ , because--" but they're both interrupted by a scream from downstairs. Gerard starts cackling, clapping his hands with glee, and Patrick tries not to laugh out of deference to Brendon, but he can't help but grin into his drink. When Brendon comes back up the stairs with Frank close behind, he's giggling nervously, his face bright red.

"Have you been _down there_?" he says to Patrick, eyes wide.

"Yup," Patrick says, and tugs on his hat to keep from smiling wider as Brendon huffs at him.

The pizza is good, for New York style, and Brendon has three huge slices before his eyes start to droop. "Bedtime!" Frank says with a little more glee than Patrick thinks is normal. Until, that is, Gerard shows them both to the guest room, where he's put their bags on either side of one double bed.

"Hope that's okay?" Gerard asks, and it would sound innocent if Patrick hadn't known this dude for almost three years. He glares in response and Brendon flushes pink, starts stammering about the couch. Patrick just exhales loudly.

"It's fine, don't worry about it. Good _night_ , Gerard." He closes the door just gently enough that it can't be called a slam, and when he turns around Brendon is biting his lip, eyes darting around the room at everything but Patrick. "I get the left," is all Patrick says, and he digs around in his bag for his sleep pants, padding into the adjoining bathroom to change.

When he comes back out, Brendon is already under the covers, blanket tucked under his chin, eyes closed. Patrick's pretty sure he's not asleep already, but it's easier this way, to climb in and pretend this is fine. Because it _is_ fine. It should _be_ fine. Brendon is nothing more than a friend, a kid who Patrick picked up a week ago, a near-stranger with a pretty face and a history Patrick hasn't bothered to find out. His stomach aches a little at that thought, at the idea that maybe he's been a jerk for not asking Brendon about what he's running away from. But Brendon has no trouble talking about almost anything at all, and Patrick can't help but think that if Brendon wanted him to know, he'd have told him by now.

He wakes up when the early morning light shifts across the bed, stretching and yawning but taking care to not jostle Brendon. The house is quiet and still - Gerard and Frank are not morning people - and Patrick takes a little time to just savor the sound of rustling leaves against the window. He's used to the rumble of steel and rubber on asphalt, the 24-hour sounds of truck stops and gas stations outside his windows. A lawnmower starts up down the street and Patrick smiles. Even the suburbs can't escape from the whir of engines.

He turns his head to see Brendon's eyes opening just a fraction. "Hey," Brendon whispers, and Patrick thinks he's savoring this quiet too.

"Hey," Patrick whispers back, and Brendon smiles.

"What time's it?" Brendon murmurs, and Patrick turns to the bedside table. The clock says it's 7:10, and Patrick is suddenly slammed with the knowledge that this is his last day with Brendon, that sometime today he has to get Brendon into New York. It's like kicking a baby bird out of it's nest, he thinks. It's necessary for the bird to move on. But Patrick wonders if Brendon will find his wings fast enough, or if he'll end up splattered all over the sidewalk. He turns back to Brendon with a sinking feeling in his stomach, a fake smile on his face.

"Still too early," Patrick says. "Get some sleep."

Brendon sighs happily and shifts further under the blankets. His arm brushes Patrick's, bare skin sleep-warm, and Patrick doesn't pull away. He watches Brendon sleep for another hour before there's a clang from downstairs and the familiar smells of coffee and cigarettes wafts upstairs.

*

Somehow, they don't get Brendon on a train that morning. Gerard and Frank head to the office for the morning and Brendon and Patrick spend the morning lazing around on the couch watching the Cartoon Network, and order more pizza in for lunch. Then Gerard wants to give Brendon the dimestore tour of North Jersey, and Frank wants to drag Patrick to the vinyl shop. They all meet for dinner at Arthur's Pub, and Patrick has only a tiny pang of shame when Frank has to sweet talk an underage Brendon inside.

"You having fun, kid?" Frank asks, and Brendon grins at him.

"Absolutely. What else have you got?" He takes a bite of his meal - a side of fries this time - and pretends not to notice when Patrick cuts his massive burger in half and slides half of it on to his plate. His cheeks get pink though, and Frank exchanges a look with Gerard. Patrick kicks Frank under the table.

"Well, we have to get some stuff from Sam's Club for Adam and Butcher's thing tomorrow," Gerard says, adding a pregnant pause at the end. "You any good at making tiny sandwiches?"

"I'm... yeah, sure," Brendon says, a little confused, "Like, finger sandwiches? We had to make them all the time for Temple functions."

Patrick pauses with his burger halfway to his mouth, but Brendon doesn't notice, with the way Gerard is beaming at him. Brendon's Mormon, which could mean nothing at all, except for the queasy feeling in Patrick's stomach. Frank raises his eyebrows at Patrick across the table, and Patrick shrugs it off, embarrassed that he didn't know already, that he hadn't figured it out. "Excellent!" Gerard says happily, "I mean, it'll mean a few more days in Jersey, if you don't mind, but we could totally use the help." Gerard makes big, pleading eyes at Brendon and Frank's mouth twitches at the corners.

"O-okay, cool, sounds fun," Brendon replies, and half of Patrick wants to strangle Gerard for his meddling, but the other half notices the way Brendon's shoulders lose some of their tension, the way his appetite picks up. A few more days of Brendon being safe and sound with Patrick - and Gerard, and Frank - can't hurt, he thinks. A few more nights, too, in the tiny guest room, with Brendon warm and pliant next to him.

 _Fucking Gerard and his fucking good ideas._

Patrick gets ready for another night sleeping next to Brendon by trying to turn in early. He's already in his pajamas when Brendon slips in the room, eyes soft and tired around the edges. "Hey," Patrick says, and Brendon yawns in reply. Patrick laughs. "Better rest up; tomorrow we're going to have to endure hours of forced labor thanks to your sandwich making skills."

Brendon kicks off his jeans and tugs off his t-shirt and crawls into bed without any ceremony at all, his back to Patrick's side, and Patrick's heart skids a little in his chest. He's quiet, focusing on his breathing and not on Brendon's slight form, olive skin freckled across his shoulders. He's possibly too quiet, because he can see Brendon tense up. "I'm sorry, for being such a pain in the ass," Brendon says softly, and Patrick reaches out, brushes his fingers through the hair on Brendon's neck before he can stop himself. The kid is so _tense_.

"You're not a pain in the ass," he says, because Brendon isn't - he _should_ be, he's a loud, ridiculous intrusion on a life Patrick has carefully crafted - but Patrick likes having Brendon around more than he's comfortable with. "You in a hurry to get to New York?" Patrick asks, because he's certainly not in a hurry to get Brendon there.

Brendon shrugs, ducks his head a little so Patrick's fingers can push against his skin, knead out the knots under the surface. "Not like I have anything going on there," he says plainly, and Patrick can finally hear the fear laced through his words. He wants to ask Brendon about home, about why he left. He wonders if Brendon is running away from his Church, his mission. Brendon seems like he'd be the perfect kid in a big Mormon family - smart but respectful, charming and kind - but he can't help but think of the way Brendon's eyes were glued to Andy and Mix back in Chicago, the way he flirted with Pete in Denver. The spark of something in his eyes in that diner in Avoca that made Patrick's whole body warm.

"You can hang with me for a while, if you want," Patrick hears himself say, and Brendon stills, shivers a little when Patrick's thumb grazes behind his ear. Patrick's heart is racing, and he knows this is coming out wrong; it feels more like a proposition, a seduction, than a friendly offer for help. Patrick isn't sure it's _not_. He pulls his hand away and flips off the light. "Think about it, no pressure," he says firmly before Brendon can answer. They lay there in the dark for a while, just listening to each other breathe.

*

Brendon is already in the kitchen with Gerard by the time Patrick stumbles in the next morning. "You want to be in charge of tuna or roasted veggies?" Brendon asks with a cheerful smile as he points to a spread of sandwich fixings on the table. "Gee already called the Italian subs, something about it being his birthright."

They spend the morning laughing over mini-sandwich disasters, Gerard and Patrick sharing stories of their crazy friends on the road, Brendon laughing through them. Patrick tells Gee about Brendon's musical background, and Gerard makes them sing as they assemble. Brendon howls his way through some Joan Jett, and Gerard gets a glint in his eye. "Don't let him talk you into joining his damn band," Patrick warns with a mock growl.

"What?" Gerard puts his hands up. "Just because you're too chicken shit to sing in front of people, Stumph, doesn't mean young Brendon should deny his natural talents."

"You have a band?" Brendon asks, his interest piqued, and Patrick rolls his eyes.

"He would have a decent band if half of them weren't on the road most of the year," Patrick explains, and Gerard sighs heavily.

"It's our lot in life," he says. "Destined to play our best shows over the CB radio."

Frank wanders up from the basement, his shirt speckled with red paint, and kisses Gerard on the cheek. "We'll play my birthday, and that's cool enough," he placates and Gerard feeds him half a sandwich with his fingers. Patrick pretends not to notice Brendon's flush, and the way he watches until Frank bites the end of Gerard's finger with a smirk.

The party is at Butcher and Adam's big loft in Hoboken. It's in a shitty neighborhood, but that means it's huge enough for Butcher's art to take up half of the loft, canvases as tall as Patrick lined up against the wall, huge paper mache sculptures hanging from the industrial beams in the ceiling. The party is half rave, half art show, and Patrick and Brendon stick close to each other as they go inside, slipping past tattooed boys and girls in fedoras. "Whoa," Brendon says under his breath as a girl walks past in platform shoes that make her well over six feet tall, a skintight purple dress accented with jewelry made from shards of mirrored glass.

"Patrick, hey!" Butcher appears at his elbow, shirtless and smiling wide. He pulls Patrick into a tight hug. "I'm so glad you're in town for this!" Patrick's known Butch since Chicago, and it was his idea for Butcher to move out to Jersey, meet some of Gerard's friends, give the New York art scene a try. "Did you see Sisky's light show?" Butcher points to a screen against the far wall where a dizzying array of lights slip and slide over and around Butcher's paper sculptures. It's a multimedia explosion of color.

"That's amazing," Brendon says, awed, and Butcher smiles at him. "Hey, I'm Brendon, from Vegas."

"Hi, Brendon-from-Vegas. I'm Andy Mrotek," he says, sticking out his hand for Brendon to shake. "Mostly I'm called The Butcher." He lingers a little in Brendon's grasp, and Patrick can see his thumb slide over Brendon's palm as he pulls away.

"Why?" Brendon asks, and flushes a little, embarrassed. Butcher just laughs.

"No fucking clue, man," he says, eyes dancing. Brendon licks his lips, his eyes skittering over Butcher's chestpiece, his slim hips, his unruly curls. "Come on, I'll show you the view from the balcony," Butcher says, and pulls Brendon up the stairs. Brendon casts a wide-eyed glance over his shoulder at Patrick. Patrick swallows around the bitter taste in his mouth and gives him a mock salute.

"Huh," Frank says, slipping in to view on his other side. "That's an interesting development."

Gerard nods, chewing thoughtfully on one of Brendon's tiny tuna fish sandwiches. "Yeah, didn't really see that coming."

Patrick turns on his heel and pushes into the crowd.

*

Saturday is rainy and grey and matches Patrick's mood perfectly.

They'd found Brendon hours later at the party, tipsy and pink with the blush of a blooming hickey behind his left ear. Brendon had been smiling and dazed, and Patrick had managed to keep his mouth shut the whole car ride back to Gerard and Frank's. It wasn't any of his business who Brendon hooked up with, and Butcher was a decent guy, if a little flighty for Patrick's taste, a little scrawny, a little wild. Brendon's mood turned quiet and withdrawn when they made it back to the guest room, but Patrick didn't say anything at all, just climbed into his side of the bed and turned the light off before Brendon was even finished changing his clothes.

The rain is pelting the windows when Patrick wakes up. Brendon pads out of the bathroom with his toothbrush still in his mouth, checking through his bag for something. It's another post card, this one proclaiming Jersey the "Garden State", and Patrick doesn't move an inch as Brendon takes a deep breath and drops a stamp on it. There's no writing on the card that Patrick can see, save for the address. All the postcards so far have been images of where Brendon was a the moment, of his journey across the country with Patrick, and he knows deep down that they're meant for someone back home, a trail like breadcrumbs, in case anyone cares to come looking for him.

Patrick can't imagine anyone _not_ dropping everything to come after a kid like Brendon, and he wonders again if Brendon's face is on a milk carton somewhere, if the cops are giving daily updates to Brendon's distraught parents.

New York City is only a thirty minute drive from Gerard and Frank's small house; Patrick and Brendon both move through the morning slowly, packing their bags up in relative silence. Frank drives them down to the office where Patrick's rig is still parked. Patrick keeps stealing glances at the bruise on Brendon's throat, and Brendon keeps patting the side of his bag, making sure his half-depleted roll of cash is still there. Patrick makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. He can go drop Brendon off in the city today, but what the hell will he tell his mom, when she asks about what Brendon's up to? What the hell will he tell _Brendon's_ mom, if she ever catches up to him? He looks up to see Brendon watching him, wary.

"I can take the train," he says, and Patrick tugs on his hat and crosses his arms.

"Yeah, I mean. If you want to," he says, and Frank's jaw tenses. "Or you could just ride with me down to Tallahassee and back," he adds, looking out the window and not at Frank. "Weather report says it's going to rain for a few days, and that's shitty weather for apartment hunting."

"That's not necessary, 'Trick. It's okay."

"You ever been to Florida in the fall?" Patrick asks. "Only decent time to go, man. We can drive through DC; I'll quiz you on the presidents." Patrick tries to keep his tone light, but his stomach is in knots. He's not even sure why he's asking - Brendon doesn't need to take a four thousand mile detour to avoid a little rain.

But Brendon says "Okay, why the fuck not," and smiles a little, clutching his backpack tight to his chest, and Patrick smiles for the first time all day. Frank lets out a long, slow breath and Patrick looks at him. If Frank was so worried about Brendon being on his own in the city, he could have offered to have Brendon stay with him and Gerard until he had a place, until he was on his feet. In fact, it's the kind of thing Frank and Gerard do all the time, taking in strays and fattening them up and keeping them out of trouble.

He wonders why Frank and Gerard didn't offer this time, but he doesn't have much time to dwell on it as he and Brendon go over the pickup and drop off schedule for the run, Gerard pointedly ignoring Brendon's presence with a grin on his face. They get on the road by noon with big hugs from Frank and Gerard, and Brendon kicks his wet shoes off in the cab and puts his feet up on the dash with a contented sigh.

"Get your feet off my console and make us a playlist," Patrick says, tossing Brendon his East Coast ipod. Brendon puts his feet down and gives Patrick a grin and a mock salute.

"Aye aye, Captain."

*

The hickey isn't all that big. Brendon naps on the drive, his head propped up on his arm and tilted toward the window. He still looks young, but the hickey stands out in stark relief on his pale neck, reminding Patrick that he's old enough to be a temptation. Patrick can't help his eyes drifting over to look at it, again and again. They're halfway through Virginia and Patrick tries to keep his mind on the drive, and not on the boy in the seat next to him. But he's only got Brendon for a few more days, he knows, and he kind of wants the kid to wake up and talk to him, keep him company. He frowns down at his dashboard. Patrick's never really wanted anyone to _keep him company_ before, not even Pete, who knows how to make Patrick laugh better than anyone alive. Brendon is fucking with his whole driving routine, with his chatter and his singing and his feet on Patrick's clean dash, and now Patrick is worried he'll be fucking _lonely_ when Brendon inevitably goes off to New York to find a new, exciting life. Brendon, who clearly has no problem making friends wherever he fucking goes, as evidenced by the massive, enormous hickey on his goddamned throat.

By the time Patrick pulls off at a rest stop to user the bathroom and grab some snacks, he's agitated and irritable. "Hey, where are we?" Brendon asks with a sleepy yawn, blinking his eyes open.

"Oh, well look who's awake," Patrick grumbles as he pulls off his seat belt and opens the door. Brendon's forehead creases into a frown.

"I... sorry?" Brendon says, biting at his lower lip, and Patrick huffs and climbs out of the cab. He doesn't bother asking what Brendon wants to eat and ends up coming back with a bag of candy and chips, a large bottle of YooHoo at the bottom of the bag for later. Brendon is fully awake now, his feet pulled up on the seat so Brendon can rest his chin on his knees. It makes him look like a twelve year old (with a huge-ass hickey) and Patrick blushes in shame because he still wants to touch him, to reach over and brush Brendon's hair out of his eyes, and clenches his jaw a few times before speaking.

"Feet off the seats," he says, and Brendon slides his feet to the floor, fingers folding tightly around his knees.

"I could make a new playlist," he says quietly, barely looking at Patrick out of the corner of his eye. He's nervous, like he was that first night in Patrick's cab, but for some reason Patrick doesn't want to reassure him. He likes Brendon being a little wary of him, likes that Brendon isn't being too familiar, that Patrick is in charge of his own fucking truck again.

"Sure," he says, and it comes out a little clipped. Brendon ducks his head and picks up the iPod. "No fucking country," he adds, and Brendon stills, then nods.

*

The tension in the truck is palpable, and Brendon has apparently decided to deal with it in a way that is distinctly _Brendon_ : he's ignoring it entirely, and singing En Vogue at the top of his lungs. Patrick's fingers are white knuckled on the steering wheel, but he can't help but sing along when they come to the sweet harmony parts. Brendon grins over at him, happy and a little sly, like he knew Patrick wouldn't be able to resist. Patrick frowns harder.

"Hey, pass me the YooHoo," he says gruffly, and Brendon pauses.

"Oh, um," he says, confused. "I drank that?" Patrick turns to glare at him. "You were right there!" Brendon says, "Like, I pulled it out of the bag and you were right there, on the radio with Joe, and you didn't say anything!"

"Yeah, I was _busy_ ," Patrick grits out. It's not even that he really loves YooHoo, and more the _principle_ of the thing. "I also didn't say 'Hey, Brendon, feel free to eat all my food'," he says. He slams his hand on the steering wheel hard enough that Brendon flinches next to him. "Just. Stop fucking with my shit, Brendon!" he says, a little louder than he'd intended.

Maybe it's not just the YooHoo. He's really fucking pissed, and he doesn't even know _why_ , really, just that Brendon is looking at him with wide, confused eyes, and he's biting his damn lip again, and Patrick really fucking wants to _kiss him_ , maybe, and that is just _not okay_.

"I'm sorry, I'll pay you back," Brendon replies, hands pushing through his hair. He sounds worried, and a little pissed too, and it sets Patrick's teeth on edge.

"How?" he bites out, and Brendon closes his mouth with a snap. "Yeah, you pay me back for the food and the gas and the lodging and then what? You're running low on twenties, Bren. You pay me back for everything, and how are you going to pay for your shithole apartment in New York?" He's not even sure where this is coming from - Brendon doesn't own him for anything, except maybe his damned YooHoo, but his blood is rushing fast past his own ears, and it feels good to say it, somehow. To let Brendon know that he knows Brendon's dirty little secret, that he knows Brendon has no idea what he's doing.

To remind himself that maybe Brendon is as off-kilter as he is, right now.

Brendon crosses his arms and hunches low in the chair, eyes fixed out the window. "I'll figure it out," he says, quiet and even, and somehow Patrick knows that this is Brendon's angry voice. Patrick snorts derisively. "Yeah, well, _some_ people actually like me."

"Yeah, I noticed," Patrick says, his eyes cutting traitorously to the hickey on his neck, and Brendon reaches his hand up to cover it, his cheeks blushing hot pink.

"Wow, it's good to know what you think of me," he says, and Patrick thinks, _yeah, maybe I do think you're a little fucking easy_ , but he can't make the thought stick. He thinks, _you should really have friends who aren't douchebags like me_ , but all that comes out is, "Hey, I'm not the one who accepts candy and free rides from strangers."

Brendon slips even lower in his seat, folding in on himself like a ball. "I'll pay you back," he says again, his voice hard, but wavering just a little.

"Whatever," Patrick mutters, because he's so over his own ridiculous feelings about this kid, and his own big, stupid mouth, and Brendon can't pay him back because Brendon is a lost, sweet kid with no money and no idea what he's doing.

*

They pull into a struck stop just past the South Carolina border and Brendon jumps out as soon as the engine is off. Patrick figures he's gone to the bathroom and waits a little while in the cab, just resting his head back against the seat and breathing. He owes Brendon an apology, he knows that, but part of him wonders if it's better this way, with Brendon thinking he's a dick. That way he won't force Patrick to listen to Beyonce anymore, or let him rub Brendon's shoulders in a way that should be really platonic, but isn't. He thinks back to Frank and Gerard's, and the shiver down Brendon's spine when Patrick touched him, and he can already feel himself getting hard at the thought of "what if?"

Brendon doesn't need that kind of friend in his life, not right now, and it pisses Patrick off that he can't just be the kind of friend Brendon needs. Maybe he should call Pete for advice. But Pete's the one who planted these thoughts... okay, Patrick's not even going to pretend that's true. He's had these thoughts since he first saw Brendon, scared and alone at that diner. Since the night at his mom's when Brendon played guitar for him and Patrick woke up to Brendon's long fingers brushing his arm.

After a little while, Patrick looks up from his own brand of self-flagellation to see that nearly thirty minutes have passed, and there's still no sign of Brendon. He frowns at the clock and scans the area around the entrance, trying to spot Brendon in the darkness. There's no sign of him. Patrick's startled by the sound of a truck revving it's engine a few spaces down and he has this sudden, sick feeling in his stomach that Brendon is in that truck, or in one of the trucks pulling out of the rest stop onto I-95, heading god knows where. He checks around frantically, but Brendon's bag is gone, and Patrick starts cursing under his breath.

" _Fucking motherfucker_ ," he mutters, clambering down from his cab and heading toward the entrance to the stop. Someone was bound to have seen Brendon - he sticks out like a sore thumb at a place like this. Brendon's not in the McDonald's or the men's room, he's not buying coffee, or hiding out in the small arcade. Patrick's hands shake just a little as he opens the back door of the truck stop to check outside where the smokers congregate. He almost misses it, the movement tucked back into the shadow of trees that line the back of the rest area, unlit save for a dim bulb over a picnic table. But when he looks again, Brendon's there, his silhouette slipping in and out of the shadows as he talks to some guy with a pot belly and a lit cigarette. He lets the door close behind him, quiet enough that neither of them see him, and when his eyes adjust to the dark he can see that the guy is standing closer to Brendon than he should be, can see when the guy reaches out to curl his arm around Brendon's elbow. Brendon's spine goes stiff with apprehension.

"Hey!" Patrick yells into the darkness, and his feet are carrying him over before he can even register the movement. "Get the fuck away from him."

"Me and the kid are just having a little chat," the other guy drawls, and fuck if he's not at least twenty years older than Brendon, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, wedding band visible on his fat, tobacco-stained finger. "None of your concern."

"Brendon," Patrick bites out, close enough that he can see the line of fear set in Brendon's jaw. "Go get in the truck. Right now."

"'Trick," Brendon says, eyes wide and pleading as the guy's fingers close even tighter around his elbow.

Patrick takes a deep breath, then another one, before staring the guy in the face, hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He's not a fighter, not really, but if this guy doesn't let go of Brendon in the next five seconds, Patrick is going to wipe the fucking parking lot with his _face_. "Let go," he growls, low and threatening; the guy's fingers uncurl and he takes a step back.

"Sorry, man, didn't know he was spoken for," he says with a sneer, and Patrick almost hits him in the face.

"Brendon," he says again, and Brendon is moving fast, ducking behind Patrick and tugging on the hem of his shirt, pulling them both around the side of the building toward the bustle of people getting in and out of their cars.

"Patrick," Brendon says, voice hoarse and strained, and Patrick just puts a hand on his lower back, steers him back to the safety of his truck without a word.

"Get in," he grits out, and only when Brendon is inside and Patrick's pulling himself up after him does he realize his hands are shaking. "In the back," he says to Brendon, because he doesn't want this guy seeing Brendon through the window, doesn't want ANYONE seeing him there. Brendon eyes the bed warily before climbing into the back and Patrick wonders if he can drive like this, with his hands shaking and his pulse racing a million miles an hour. He locks the doors and dims the light in the cabin and grips the steering wheel, counting to five, ten, twenty.

"Patrick --," Brendon says from the darkness behind him.

"Shut up," Patrick cuts in, and his voice cracks. "What the fuck were you thinking, Bren, _Jesus_?"

"I was gonna pay you back," he replies, his voice almost a whisper, and Patrick hits the steering wheel a few times, the sound loud and angry, bouncing off the walls. "I'm sorry," Brendon says, and fuck, he's _crying_.

Patrick swivels his chair around so he's facing his tiny cabin, Brendon curled up small and miserable in the middle of his bed. He wants to just crawl in there with him, pull him close and hold him and tell him everything is going to be fine, that Brendon is going to be _just fine_ , but he doesn't trust his own hands right now. He just looks Brendon in the eyes for a long minute, fingers curled tightly in the armrest of his chair. "Don't _ever_ fucking do that again, Brendon. Don't ever fucking think that's a good idea. _Ever_ , okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Brendon whispers, and Patrick turns his chair around and closes his eyes for a long minute.

"Get some sleep," he says, finally, and turns the engine on, pulling the truck out of it's spot and back onto the highway. He's only got a handful of miles left on his log for the day, but he pushes past them, just a little, until he finds a rest stop far enough away from the guy with the ponytail that he feels comfortable pulling off the road. When he turns around again, Brendon is asleep, fingers curled under Patrick's pillow.

Patrick stays awake long into the night, his headphones on as he messes around in GarageBand, his eyes flicking over to Brendon every few minutes to make sure he's still there.

*

When Brendon wakes up, Patrick is already on the road. He slips into the passenger seat without a word, and Patrick doesn't scold him when he pulls his feet up onto the seat and curls his arms around his knees. "Morning," Brendon says, voice small and scratchy.

"Morning," Patrick replies, and tosses him a fruit roll-up and turns up the stereo before they can say anything else. Brendon eats his snack slowly, picking at the sticky candy with both hands. Patrick pretends not to notice the way he sucks the sweetness from his fingers when he's done. Brendon hums along with the music - "House of the Rising Sun", followed by "Lucky", then "Take A Walk on the Wildside". By the time the playlist flips to "Roxanne", Sting's voice sweeping over the reggae beat, Brendon's face is turned into his knees, his ears pink from embarrassment.

"I get it, Patrick, god," he groans, and Patrick raises an eyebrow at him.

"We haven't even gotten to "Lady Marmalade" yet," he says, straight-faced, and Brendon leans over to hit him lightly on the arm.

"I'm not going to become a high class call girl," Brendon says, and Patrick turns the volume down just a little.

"Okay, just so long as we're clear," he replies with a small smile. Brendon leans back in his chair and puts his feet down, fingers bouncing out the rhythm of the song on his thigh.

They ride for another hour or so, Brendon flipping through the CB stations and quizzing Patrick on the trucker terminology. Patrick's tense and tired, but every time he looks over at Brendon, smiling and happy and _safe_ in the seat next to him, he feels his shoulders relax a little. He thinks about the end of this run, and how Brendon still has no friends, no place to live in New York, and more and more he just wants to keep Brendon here, in his cab, and make sure nothing bad ever happens to him.

He knows that's stupid and impractical. Brendon doesn't need a babysitter. He needs a _plan_. Patrick turns down the radio and taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

"So," he starts, and Brendon turns a little in his seat, one leg tucked under him.

"So," Brendon grins at him. Patrick catches his eyes and can't help but smile back. The kid has a really infectious grin.

"You need a plan, kid," Patrick says bluntly, and Brendon sighs.

"You know I'm not a kid, right?" he asks. "I have a diploma and I can vote and everything."

"Yeah, yeah, call me when your balls drop," Patrick says, rolling his eyes, and Brendon laughs.

"Heyyy, baby," he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave as he leans in toward Patrick, eyebrows wagging. Patrick's pulse jumps and he swats at Brendon with one hand, hoping to deflect from the blush creeping over his cheeks. _Fine_ , he tells himself. _Brendon's not a kid. Doesn't mean he's in the market for a skeevy older guy._ He thinks about the truck stop the night before and shudders.

"Fine, Barry White, point taken," Patrick says. "You still need a plan. I'm not psyched about dropping you off in Times Square with two hundred bucks and a handshake."

Brendon leans back against the door with a small sigh. "Yeah, I know. I just don't really have any ideas. Like I said, I can do retail, or Starbucks or whatever until I figure it out."

"Why New York, then?" Patrick asks. "You can do retail or Starbucks in any city in the country, for a way lower cost of living."

Brendon shrugs. "New York's where people go to start over, right?" He picks lightly at the hem of his shirt and stares out the window of the cab. "City that never sleeps, city where you can figure your shit out, find fame and fortune."

"So you're looking for fame and fortune?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" Brendon shrugs again. "Isn't everyone looking for a little fame and fortune?"

Patrick thinks about the songs he writes and remixes and records on the road, locked away in his laptop where no one will ever hear them but Pete. It hurts a little, to make music that no one will ever hear, and he thinks there's a small part of him that yearns for a little recognition. "Yeah, maybe," he replies. "But I also think it's important to find something you really love to do, something that fits you, whether it means you get famous or not." Patrick thinks about his time on the road, the great open stretches of land in front of him, the cities he's seen, the friends he's made from coast to coast. It's a good life he's carved out for himself, even if his mom thinks it's a little lonely.

"I don't know what I'm good at," Brendon says plainly. "I mean, I'm good at music, but that's not really going to pay the bills."

"What about college?" Patrick ventures.

"What about it?" Brendon snaps back, arms crossing, and Patrick frowns. He seems to have hit a nerve.

"Hey, college is a good idea, Bren. You could take a bunch of stuff, figure out what you're into—,"

"I'm not going to college," Brendon says flatly, and Patrick somehow knows not to push it.

"Okay, then. What about a trade school?"

"Like trucking?" Brendon says, eyes widening a little.

"Or like something in medicine, or law. Air conditioning repair. _Clown college_." Patrick says.

"Or trucking," Brendon says again, a big smile stretching across his face. Patrick groans.

"Come on, Urie. You don't want to be a trucker."

"Why not?" Brendon asks. "I mean, I guess I could be a clown, but I bet it doesn't come with dental." He leans back in his seat with a satisfied hum.

Patrick takes a deep breath. Brendon needs a plan that utilizes all his talents, his personality, his warm smile and his natural sunniness. Not a career where he'd spend ninety percent of his time alone in his truck with no one but his radio for company. He steals a glance at Brendon, watching the road roll out in front of them with a small, satisfied smile on his face. It's going to take a while to talk Brendon out of this stupid trucking plan, but… he could work it to his advantage for now.

"Okay, you're basing this trucking career choice off of… what? A week and a half in a truck with me? What if you can't cut another week? It's a lot of motel rooms and diner food and shitty talk radio, Bren."

Brendon snorts. "I can totally swing another week. Hell, another _month_. This is fun." He turns his grin on Patrick, and Patrick can see that warmth in his eyes again, sweeping over Patrick's face, down to his hands on the steering wheel.

"Fine," Patrick says, chest tight. This suddenly seems like a terrible idea, another week or more with Brendon in his passenger seat, warm and sunny and sweet, and totally off-limits. But he thinks again about Brendon alone in New York, and decides a personal sacrifice needs to be made, even if it's his own sanity. "I'll talk to Gerard about taking you along on my next long-haul. Four thousand miles straight through, and we'll see if you aren't bored enough to claw your eyes out at the end."

"Deal," Brendon says, holding out his hand to shake. Patrick shakes his head, but he's smiling when he slips his hand into Brendon's. So what if he holds on for maybe a minute too long?


	3. Chapter 3

Brendon spends long hours on the radio with Mikey and Frank, and Pete and Joe when they're in range. He pours over Patrick's manuals, peppers him with questions about his logs. When they pull into WayRo headquarters a few days later, Frank and Gerard come out to meet them with Bob and Ray in tow. Brendon smiles at them shyly, intimidated by Bob's gruff demeanor, Ray's wild hair and leather jacket.

"So, you're the stray," Bob says around his cigarette when Gerard introduces them, and Ray shoots Patrick a sly grin when Brendon blushes and shakes his hand. "Nice to meet you," Ray says, polite as ever, and Frank pulls Brendon along as they head inside, talking about new engine parts for Ray and Bob's custom rig. Patrick's not sure why until he turns to see Gerard leaning against his truck, watching him.

"He wants to be a trucker now?" Gerard says with raised eyebrows. "What the hell, 'Trick?"

Patrick bristles. "He's not bad at it," he says, and he's surprised to realize he means it. Brendon's picked up everything Patrick's thrown at him.

"You can't keep him like a pet," Gerard says, not unkindly, and Patrick thinks about his conversation with Pete back in Chicago, Brendon's head warm on his shoulder. He doesn't want to keep Brendon, not really. It's just that, especially after what happened at that truck stop, he doesn't know how he's going to be able to let Brendon go without worrying about him every fucking second.

"I know that," he says, suddenly too tired to argue. He scrubs his hands over his face. "I just can't drop him off in Manhattan and hope for the best, Gee. And I don't know what else to do with him right now."

"Have you talked to him about going home?" Gerard asks.

Patrick hasn't. He thought about it, but he hates the look on Brendon's face whenever Patrick even tiptoes around the subject of Vegas, or his parents.

"Look," Gerard sighs. "I can turn my head for a little while longer, though you better not get pulled over anywhere, for _anything_." Patrick nods. "I put you guys on another run, out to San Diego. The route should take you close enough to Vegas that it's an option. Maybe the best one?" Gerard is being really reasonable, Patrick knows that, and he takes another deep breath, stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah, probably," he says, and hates the way his voice comes out low, hoarse. "I'll talk to him."

"Good," Gerard says, and slings an arm around Patrick's shoulders as they head back inside. "If that doesn’t work, maybe I can schedule a run through Iowa, see if you can make an honest man out of him," he whispers low in Patrick's ear. Patrick elbows Gerard in the stomach.

*

Brendon is totally excited about the San Diego run. Patrick would usually take the same roads he always does, but Brendon's enthusiasm is infectious and he plots a route straight across I-40, just so he and Brendon will have an excuse to stop in Nashville for a few hours to look at some record shops. Patrick's tempted to let the kid spend half a day in Dollywood, but they have a deadline on the freight. "It's cool, maybe on the way back," Brendon says, bouncing in his seat as the exit sign flies by, and Patrick feels his stomach twist.

Nashville is amazing, as always, and Brendon spends a few hours dragging Patrick up and down side streets, stopping to hear the music coming out of the front door of ever bary they walk past. Even at two in the afternoon there's music pouring from every doorway - jazz and country and bluegrass calling to them. Patrick watches as Brendon closes his eyes and leans on an old, warped door frame, trying to focus in on the sound of a woman with a steel-stringed guitar, singing about love and loss and the past. When he opens his eyes, he catches Patrick's gaze for a long minute, both of them just breathing in the music of the city with a shared yearning. "Come on," Patrick says, and Brendon tangles his fingers with Patrick's as they walk down to Patrick's favorite shop, full of refurbished guitars and pedals and amps, hanging from the ceiling at odd angles, low enough that even Patrick has to duck to get around some of them. Brendon picks up an old, battered acoustic with a scroll inlay of mother-of-pearl, chipped from years of use. He plucks at it while Patrick browses, hums a little Lyle Lovett under his breath. Patrick doesn't even think about it when the owner asks if he needs any help; he passes over a hundred bucks for the guitar and tries to look like he doesn't care when Brendon's eyes go wide. "Whatever, it's a good deal," Patrick scoffs, and lets Brendon carry it back to the truck, slung over his back by the worn leather strap.

"What are you going to do with an acoustic in your truck?" Brendon asks, laying out carefully on Patrick's bed. "Or is it just going to live at your mom's?" Patrick tucks his other purchases in the cabinets under his bunk.

Patrick doesn't say _'Thought I'd let you keep it,'_ because he knows Brendon wouldn't accept it, not without some careful planning on Patrick's part. "Might do some writing on it," he says instead, and Brendon's eyes light up.

"I didn't know you write music," he says eagerly and Patrick groans and sits back on his knees.

"It's not a big deal. Just stuff I throw together when I'm bored."

"Do you have anything? I want to hear it!" Brendon drops onto Patrick's bed, the mattress bouncing from his enthusiasm.

"No, Bren, it's not--," but Brendon is already picking up his laptop, kicking Patrick lightly in the thigh.

"Come on, 'Trick, I want to hear it."

No one's heard any of Patrick's songs but Pete, and even then it's only been over the tinny loudspeakers of Patrick's computer. He has some better recording equipment at his mom's, stuff he picked up on sale here and there, and he has a few songs he doesn't actually hate, but he's afraid to burn them on disk for Pete. Pete's promised if he did, they'd find their way to places like record labels, and that's not. Patrick's not that good, not really. But Brendon is looking at him expectantly, grinning, and... why the fuck not? Patrick could use another set of ears on his stuff, a set that could actually give decent, critical advice.

He doesn't cue up a new one, though. He opens iTunes and finds a song he wrote his first year on the road, about open spaces and coming home. It's the only song he has that he thinks is _finished_ , that he hasn't remixed and rewritten a million times. He hits play and Brendon leans forward, elbows on his knees, and listens. He doesn't close his eyes, just lets them unfocus, his gaze aimed at the back of Patrick's chair. He's not seeing anything but the music, though. Patrick recognizes the tilt of Brendon's head, the slight movement in his fingers, the way he leans closer when he hears something that really catches his interest. Patrick chews on a ragged thumbnail and waits. It's not a long song, not nearly as complicated as some of his later stuff, just guitar over bass over drums, an old-school feel to it.

Patrick hits 'stop' as soon as the song ends, clicking the computer shut on his lap. Brendon looks up at him and smiles wide, head shaking. "That's... wow."

"Whatever," Patrick mumbles, because he doesn't need more of this, more pats on the back for a job well done.

"No, it's like. Waits meets the White Stripes?" Brendon says, frowning like the analogy isn't quite right. "There's a slight scratchy sound under the guitar, though. Is that supposed to be there? I mean, I like it, it's just... weird."

Patrick blinks at him. It took him three months to hear that, buried in all the layers of the finished song. "No, it was a fuck up on the soundboard," he says, slightly stunned. "I was going re-record, but... I kind of like it too." He smiles at Brendon, the kind of big, stupid smile always feels awkward on his face. "That's... I can't believe you heard that."

Brendon laughs and knocks their shoulders together. "Ears like a _hawk_ , man," he says, and Patrick laughs.

"I think that's supposed to be _eyes_ , moron."

"Whatever, I'm awesome," Brendon says. "Not unlike your song. It's really, really good, 'Trick," he adds, voice serious. Patrick blushes and tugs on his hat.

"Come on, five hundred to go today," he says, and slips into the driver's seat. Brendon sits down next to him, humming Patrick's song under his breath, and they pull back onto the road.

*

They have a routine now, Patrick notices: They do a quick shower and change at whatever rest stop they're at in the morning, and then Patrick is in charge of getting snacks for the road while Brendon picks out a playlist for the day. Brendon monitors the CB too, and helps navigate them around traffic jams using Patrick's GPS. It's handy, actually, and Patrick finds himself more relaxed on this drive than he has been in ages. Even when the truck starts making a weird wheezing noise around Little Rock, Brendon tells him not to worry until there's reason to and steers them to a service station where they tighten a few hoses and send them back on their way. "See? She's just fine," Brendon says, petting the dash like it's a cooperative puppy.

They have other routines, too, like the daily argument that breaks out over Brendon's inclusion of _Tonight, Tonight_ on every playlist ("It's a classic, Patrick!" "It's not a classic until the lead singer is dead."), or the silent negotiations at every meal over how much Patrick will let Brendon put toward the check.

Brendon is still buying postcards every time they hit a new state, and Patrick catches him buying a pack of postcard stamps at the checkout of a rest stop in Little Rock. "Hey," he says, getting in line behind him with a bottle of pop and a bag of cashews. "Who are they for?" It's the most direct question Patrick's asked about Brendon's past so far, and Brendon clears his throat and doesn't answer until they're out the door, his fingers searching out the pen in his backpack so he can address the card.

"They're for my sister, the youngest one," he says. "She's in college in Nevada." Patrick leans against the building and pops the top on his drink. Brendon scribbles her address on the card and sticks a stamp on it.

"You gonna write her a note to go with that?" he asks, and Brendon shrugs.

"Nah, she knows they're from me," he says. "It's better if no one else--," he starts, but cuts himself off. He scuffs his sneakers on the concrete and scans the parking lot for a blue mailbox.

"What if she wants to write you back?" Patrick asks quietly.

"That would be kinda hard, wouldn't it?" Brendon replies with a small smile and a nod toward where Patrick's truck is parked. "It's okay." He spots the mailbox and jogs across the parking lot. Patrick tips his head back against the wall.

*

The first few nights, Patrick takes the bed and Brendon curls up in the passenger seat without complaint. But Patrick knows how uncomfortable those seats are to try and sleep in now, and he frowns at the way Brendon rolls his shoulders in the morning, trying to get the kinks out.

The third night, Patrick pulls into a cheap motel and says, "We both need real beds, come on."

The room is shabby but clean, and Brendon skips into the bathroom as soon as he tossed his bag on one of the beds. "Brendon," Patrick says through the door.

"First shower," Brendon calls back and Patrick huffs. It's late, and they're already full from dinner at the cheap Italian place down the street. Patrick lays down on top of the covers of his bed, his head pillowed on one arm. He closes his eyes. It doesn't take long before the shower turns on, loud through the paper-thin walls. Brendon's humming turns into snippets of songs, and Patrick's toes tap along to the rhythm. The singing eases off a little, slides into a low hum without any discernible tune. Patrick strains to hear it, to pick it up where Brendon left off, but then hum is replaced by a small gasp and Patrick's whole body goes taut and hot. Brendon's not... he isn't. But there's another gasp and a short moan, and Patrick's fingers twitch against the bedspread. Brendon has no idea how thin the walls are, he reminds himself. He's not putting on a fucking show for Patrick to get off on. But Patrick's eyes are still closed and he can picture it, Brendon's slight frame covered in rivulets of water from the shower, his fist curled around his dick. Patrick turns his face into the curve of his arm to muffle his own groan.

Brendon's not really loud, but Patrick's listening hard enough to hear every gasp, every whimper. He twists his fingers in the covers to keep from pressing the heel of his hand to his groin. He's half-hard already, just from the sounds Brendon is making, and Patrick is _not_ going to jerk off to this, he's absolutely not. But he can _feel_ it when Brendon hits the edge, the quiet where he's sure Brendon is barely breathing. Patrick holds his breath too, waiting, and he hears a thud where Brendon's back hits the wall, and underneath it a faint, "Fuck, 'Trick." Patrick's eyes fly open.

 _Oh, God_.

The water runs for another minute before shutting off, Brendon already humming again. Patrick's heart is racing a mile a minute. He can still hear his own name, echoing in his ears, and wonders how the hell he's going to get through the next five minutes with Brendon, much less the next five days. Brendon opens the door and Patrick sits up like a shot, his erection straining in his jeans. "All yours, sorry," he says, holding a thin, white towel around his waist and Patrick hunches over his groin, fingers curled around the edge of the bed. "Hey, you okay?" Brendon takes a step toward him and Patrick gets up, grabbing his duffel from the floor and heading into the bathroom.

"'m fine," he says, once the door is safely closed between them, and he leans on the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. "Don't even think about it," he mouths to himself, all too aware of how well sound carries to the other side of the wall. He strips down efficiently, pointedly ignoring his cock, and ducks under the spray of the shower. He keeps it colder than he likes, and tries to make it quick, tries to focus his attention on anything other than the boy who's probably just feet from him, damp and half-dressed. But all he can conjure up is the mental image of Brendon standing in this same place, wet and flushed, thinking about _Patrick_ , maybe about Patrick on his knees, or pushing him up against the cool tile... Patrick bites back a groan - he can't afford to let Brendon know how thin the walls are, can't let Brendon think anything is out of the ordinary at all. But he finally gives in and jerks himself off in fast, harsh strokes, his face tipped up into the stream of the water as his comes. He doesn't say Brendon's name, but all he can see is his wide, inviting mouth, the way his eyes smile at the corners whenever Patrick praises his song choice on the radio.

Patrick lets the water run for a while longer, until it's cold on his shoulders and the flush isn't so visible on his pale skin.

*

They're passing through Albuquerque the next day, and Patrick makes a thirty minute detour so Brendon can try the red and green enchiladas at his favorite restaurant. Guadalupe, the tiny and vivacious owner, claps her hands when she sees Patrick come in the door, and comes over to squeeze his cheeks and remark about how he looks like he's lost weight. Patrick blushes under all the attention, and he's most certainly _not_ lost any weight, but a happy, warm feeling blooms in his chest. "Your usual place, mijo?" She asks, pointing to a stool at the end of the bar, away from the busy traffic, with a view into the kitchens. Patrick shakes his head, nodding to Brendon who's standing a few feet behind him, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Table for two, Lupe?" he says, and he's suddenly embarrassed by the happy gleam in her eyes.

"You are here with our Patrick?" she asks, folding her wrinkled brown fingers around his arm and looking him up and down. "Very nice boy," she says and starts leading Brendon to a table near the back, bright red tablecloth lit by a candle. "Patrick is always alone," Lupe steers Brendon past a tray of fresh guacamole. "You keep him company?"

Brendon glances over his shoulder at Patrick, and Patrick hates himself for the way his eyes follow Brendon's tongue as it darts out to wet his lower lip. "I try," Brendon says, then leans in to whisper conspiratorially. "He's cranky today."

"Pshh," Lupe says, and turns to hit Patrick lightly on the arm. "You be nice. Sit." Patrick takes the seat opposite Brendon and Lupe doesn't even give them menus, just bustles to the kitchen to make them whatever she thinks will fatten Patrick up. Brendon leans his elbows on the table and grins at Patrick.

"I like her," he says, nose wrinkling. "She's like your mom, only scarier."

Patrick chuckles. "That's only because you haven't pissed off my mom." Lupe brings them iced tea and Brendon empties three sugar packets in his, the sugar swirling around inside the glass before settling slowly to the bottom.

"You haven't brought anyone else here?" he asks a few minutes later. He's not looking at Patrick, eyes skating over the brightly decorate walls draped in multicolored woven fabric, framed pictures of saints tacked up next to bone-white skull masks.

Patrick shrugs. "Don't usually have anyone with me on runs," he says. "I do most stuff alone. Part of the lifestyle."

"Does that, I mean...," Brendon frowns at his hands. "Aren't there guys who drive together? Like Bob and Ray?"

"Bob and Ray are... I mean, yeah. Plenty of guys drive in teams. Just wasn't for me, I guess."

"Why?" Brendon asks, and he's still not looking at Patrick. It sets Patrick on edge, just a little.

"I'm cranky, remember?" he replies with a wry smile, but it feels all wrong on his face. He sits back in his chair. "I don't know, Bren. I'm just not that good with people."

Brendon's eyebrows shoot up. "You're _great_ with people. I mean, you're a dick sometimes, but you've got a ton of friends, 'Trick."

Patrick takes a long sip of his tea. "See how many of them would still be talking to me if they had to live in a eight-by-ten box with me every day."

"I'm still talking to you," Brendon says softly, and Patrick can feel the telltale pinprick under his skin, the urge to reach out and run his thumb over the top of Brendon's hand. He drops his hands into his lap, wraps his traitorous fingers around the seat of his chair.

"That's because you're insane," he says with a grin. "Or mentally challenged."

Brendon snorts. "Whatever, you could _totally_ work with someone else. I mean, it's not like--,"

"Hey," Patrick says, because _fuck_ , the kid is too easy to read, and he can see where this is going. The last thing either one of them needs is for Brendon to decide he's the Sundance Kid to Patrick's Butch Cassidy. "I'm happy on my own, okay? It works for me. I've got my music and my laptop and my own space, and I'm happy like that."

Brendon's face falls, and Patrick feels like he's kicked a puppy. Luckily, Lupe shows up with two huge plates, piled high with the best food in the state. "Eat, eat," she commands. She looks at Brendon's face, pinched and sad, and hits Patrick's shoulder again. "I said be nice," she snaps at him, over Patrick's indignant squawk. Brendon cracks a smile. "Don't chase away a friend," she adds, patting Patrick's cheek. "He likes you."

"Yeah," Patrick says, a little thickly, and he kicks Brendon's foot under the table. "Eat up, man, seriously. This stuff is amazing."

Brendon digs into his lunch and let's the rest of the conversation drop, but Patrick can't get the picture out of his head, him and Brendon driving through the west, Patrick's feet up on the dash, Brendon in the driver's seat, eyes wide.

It's probably the worst idea Patrick's ever had, but he can't quite shake it.

*

They're just past Flagstaff and Patrick's stomach is in knots. The next city is Kingman, with an exit to Vegas. It's a detour of half a day, but Gerard built the time into their run, just in case. He hasn't even broached the topic with Brendon, but when they pass the next sign for 93 North, he can feel Brendon tense up next to him. "Hey," he says as they pass a sign for the Hoover Dam, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Home."

"Yeah," Brendon says tightly.

"Been almost a month," Patrick says again, treading oh-so-carefully. Brendon's shoulder's hunch. "I'm just saying--"

"Yeah," he says again, and Patrick can feel him shutting down the conversation. He sighs.

"Bren--"

"Still a day to San Diego," he says. "We need gas?"

"Brendon," Patrick says again, firmly. The tension in the cab is palpable. "Look, do they even know where you are?"

"They don't care," Brendon says, and Patrick can hear the tremor under his biting tone.

"That's crazy," Patrick says. "Come on, you want to at least call--"

"I don't." Brendon takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Can we just let it go?"

"No, fuck, Brendon - we're two hours from your folks place. We can totally make it there by--"

"NO!" Brendon yells, and then folds in on himself, arms wrapped tight around his elbows, forehead propped on one knee. "Was this some fucking setup?" he asks, voice quavering, muffled through denim.

"No, Bren," Patrick says, even though it was, kind of. Brendon should be in his nice house, eating real, balanced meals with his mom and dad, freaking out over what to pack for college. "We just... I'm worried about you."

"Well, get over it," Brendon snaps at him.

"Just call them, Brendon," he says gently. "Just let them know you're okay."

"They don't want me," Brendon says softly. "They made that really clear when I left, and I really don't think they're waiting by the phone, Patrick." He sounds so fucking _sad_ that Patrick has to swallow past the lump in his throat.

"Why?" he asks, like it hasn't been something he's wondered for weeks.

"Why do you think?"

"Bren--,"

"I'm gay, 'Trick. I'm not going to be magically _ungay_ , no matter how many times my dad threatens to take my car, or not pay for college. I tried, I tried for _years_ , and I went to Temple and I kept out of trouble and my grades were good, and it didn't fucking _matter_ , because it's not something I can turn _off_." He's crying now, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. "It's not something I _want_ to turn off."

Patrick stares at the road ahead. _This_ is why Brendon left home? He knows it happens, but not to good kids like Brendon, the kind who are basically a parent's wet dream. "So you left, because they told you--"

"Can we _please_ drop it?" Brendon pleads.

They drive the next twenty miles in silence, Patrick's mind racing. He's known he was queer since high school too, even if his interest in guys was entirely theoretical. He told his mom his junior year, when he had a monumental bad-idea crush on Pete that wouldn't let him eat or sleep, and she'd baked him cookies and let him stay up late, and watched stupid Adam Sandler comedies with him on the couch until he felt better. The Pete thing had passed, but Patrick's mom hadn't ever stopped being awesome. She even joined a local chapter of PFLAG, and frowned whenever Patrick didn't want to participate in a local rally. "These are your rights we're fighting for," she chided him the last time he was home in an election year. She'd stood over him while he filled out his voter registration card, and kissed him on the cheek after, handing him a strong cup of coffee and a packed lunch for his next ride out.

Patrick glances over at Brendon, tries to imagine his own mom if he ever dropped off the face of the planet. She'd be frantic, he knows. Losing a kid for a month probably brings a lot of clarity, even if that kid doesn't fit your narrow perception of "ideal". Patrick pulls into a truck stop parking lot in Kingman. "Bathroom break," he says to Brendon, and Brendon just nods, eyes still fixed out the window.

*

There aren't too many Uries in Las Vegas, and Patrick has the operator connect him to the first one she finds. He's on his cell phone in the mostly empty bathroom. He prays no one flushes when Brendon's parents pick up.

"Hello?" The woman's voice on the other end of the line is polite but aloof.

"Hi, I'm sorry, this might sound strange," Patrick starts, his palms sweaty for some reason. "But do you have a son named Brendon?"

There's a long silence on the other end of the line. "No," she replies, and Patrick sighs.

"Sorry to bother--,"

"Wait," she says. "Is he... is he hurt?"

Patrick's heart is beating hard enough to burst through his chest. "No, ma'am, he's okay. He's been hanging out with me for a few weeks. He's just--"

"Alright, thank you," she says, the coolness back in her voice.

"I just... we're close to Vegas, and I thought you might want to see him."

She takes a deep breath. "He knows the conditions under which he can return to this house."

"What conditions?" Patrick asks, frowning at his own reflection in the mirror. Brendon's mom doesn't really sound like Patrick's mom at _all_ , and it's starting to piss him off.

"He knows. If he wants to live an _honest Christian_ life, his father and I will of course be happy to talk to him. But he's broken our trust, and it's going to be hard to get that back."

"Look, lady," Patrick snaps. "He's a good kid. He's got almost no money--"

"Well, if you're calling for money, you can stop right there. We gave him five hundred dollars when he left, and that's all he's getting. If he wants more, he knows what he has to do, and that doesn't include having immoral so-called friends call and beg from his mother."

The dial tone in his ear is sharp and abrupt. Patrick's breathing hard enough that it feels like he ran a marathon. _Fucking bitch_ , he thinks, _how dare you fucking call ME immoral!_ He leans on the sink, closing his eyes. He suddenly has an intense need to talk to his own mom, right the fuck now, but she's at work, probably no where near a phone. He dials Pete instead, hands shaking a little.

Pete picks up on the second ring. "'Trick, my sexy American-style boyfriend! What's up, man?"

Patrick doesn't even have it in him to yell. He leans against the grimy tile wall and tells Pete the whole story, of his drive to San Diego, his attempt to get Brendon home, the call to Brendon's mom. "Five hundred bucks!" he grits out. "That's gonna get him where? Where the fuck would he be if I hadn't picked him up? Who the fuck _does_ that?"

"Welcome to shitty real life, dude," Pete says grimly. "Word to the wise, people sometimes really fucking suck."

"This is bullshit. This right here," Patrick says, his pulse still racing, "this is why I do this shit on my own."

Pete snorts. "Right, totally on your own. Except for me, and your mom, and Andy and Mix and Gee and Frank and a dozen other dudes who would drop everything to come help you out if you were ever in trouble. I hate to break it to you, Patrick, but the only reason you think you don't need people is because you have the biggest fucking safety net in the world. You want to see what _alone_ looks like, you take a look at that kid in your passenger seat."

Patrick sags against the wall, rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Pete. I just." But Pete's right. Patrick's the shittiest non-people-person ever. He's got a stable full of people he loves, who love him back. Brendon's got... Patrick. "She's his _mother_ , Pete. You should have heard her."

Pete starts to reply, but Patrick's focus is drawn to a movement in the mirror. Brendon is standing there, eyes wide and mouth open. He looks betrayed. "You called my mom?"

"Brendon," Patrick says, and hangs up on Pete with a muttered, "call you back."

"No, fuck you, you had no right to do that," Brendon says, and jerks back when Patrick reaches out a hand.

"I thought she'd want you home," Patrick says softly, and Brendon's eyes well up with tears even as he laughs.

"Do you think I'd be here if I had anywhere else to go, 'Trick? You think this is some game to me? This is my fucking _life_ , okay, and they can kick me out with this fucking 'the door is open if you decide to live like we tell you to' clause, and then make it my fucking fault when I'm stuck here with nothing!"

"Brendon, I didn't know--"

"You really want to know what happened? My mom found gay porn on my computer," he says savagely. "They'd already laid down the law my sophomore year when I didn't know how to hide my tracks, and they found me watching an episode of fucking _Queer as Folk_ I borrowed from a friend. No son of theirs was going to watch guys make out, it was totally disgusting. This time, they both hit the roof, yelling about my self-respect, and how I wasn't going to disrespect them and God under their roof. I told them if they thought that was bad, they should have been there after my graduation party, when I blew Mike Samuels in the downstairs bathroom. That was probably not the best thing to say," he adds with a bitter laugh. "After that, my options were: defer BYU for a year and agree to some group home _reprogramming_ thing, or _leave_. None of my brothers or sisters were okay with the gay thing either, not really, except Kyla. And my parents are still mostly supporting her in school, so. I send her the postcards, so she knows I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Fuck, Brendon," Patrick breathes, "I'm sorry."

"You don't _know_ , Patrick," Brendon yells. "You can't fucking _fix_ this--" But Patrick doesn't let him finish, just pulls him close and puts his arms around Brendon, one hand wrapping around the back of his neck.

"I know," Patrick says, words pressed against Brendon's temple. "I know, I'm sorry."

"Patrick," Brendon sobs, broken, clinging to Patrick's shirt, and Patrick kisses his temple, his cheek, his throat. Brendon is amazing and talented and gorgeous and kind, and he can't imagine anyone not loving him as much as Patrick does right this second. If Patrick is the only person on earth who loves Brendon Urie, he's going to love him so much that Brendon's never, ever going to look like this again, small and scared and devastated.

"Bren," Patrick says, his voice catching, and Brendon tips his head up to look him in the eye. Patrick rubs his thumb over Brendon's cheekbone, wiping up tears, and when Brendon leans in Patrick meets him halfway, their mouths barely touching for a long moment before Brendon surges forward. It's not the least awkward kiss Patrick's ever had, pressed against the wall in a public bathroom, but Brendon's mouth is soft and hot, whimpering as Patrick's fingers tangle in his hair and pull him impossibly closer. Patrick's thigh slips between Brendon's and they both gasp.

"Patrick, Patrick," Brendon keens, and Patrick is already sliding his hand down to Brendon's ass when there's a loud bang just outside the door.

"Fuck," Patrick groans out, and pulls away a fraction. Brendon bites his spit-slick lip and Patrick takes a deep breath. "Brendon, do you really want to do this?"

"Oh my actual God," Brendon says with an eye-roll and presses his face to Patrick's shoulder. "I've wanted to do this since... I don't even know. Before Chicago. Patrick," he says, lifting his head, and Patrick can see it, that warm glow in his eyes that makes Patrick's whole body shiver.

"Okay, good," he says, nodding, and Brendon leans in again for a kiss, but Patrick steps out the way. "Not in the bathroom," he admonishes. Brendon slips his hand into Patrick's.

"I seem to remember you having a bed in your truck," he says, and Patrick pulls him out of the bathroom and across the parking lot at lightning speed. Brendon laughs, loud and real, and nearly beats him to the door.

"Up," Patrick orders when they reach the driver's side, and by the time Patrick's scrambled up behind him, locking the doors and putting up the sun screen in the front window, Brendon is laid out on Patrick's comforter, shirt and shoes discarded in the corner. "Brendon," he says, his mouth suddenly dry, and _fuck_ , what is he doing.

"Come on," Brendon says, "Don't punk out on me now, Stumph." His voice is wrecked.

Patrick takes the two steps to the bed slowly, tossing his hat in the corner and toeing off his shoes. He kneels on the bed and Brendon sits up, pulling on Patrick's belt. Patrick's fingers ghost along his cheek and Brendon looks up at him with a small smile. "Bren, you don't have to--,"

"Shut up and take your damn shirt off," Brendon whispers and then he's tugging Patrick's jeans open, pressing open-mouthed kisses across Patrick's stomach. Patrick digs his fingers into Brendon's bicep, his hips jerking forward as Brendon mouths over the soft cotton of Patrick's underwear.

"Fuck, Brendon," he gasps and when Brendon looks up slyly, one hand palming over Patrick's insanely hard dick, Patrick growls low in his chest and pushes Brendon onto his back. He leans down to kiss him hard, his hands trailing down Brendon's lithe body, thumbs skating over hard nipples and making Brendon moan. He pushes his hips down and grunts at the rough scratch of denim against his bare skin. "Off," he says roughly, giving Brendon just enough room to peel their jeans down their thighs before pressing into Brendon's hip again. This time, all he can feel is the hot press of Brendon's erection against his, damp through two layers of cotton. He wants to feel skin, to touch Brendon everywhere, to taste him, but Brendon's kissing him again, hot and eager, and Patrick hands seem to be very happy where they are, tangled with Brendon's. He rolls his hips and can feel Brendon shake underneath him. "So fucking hot," he says, pressing down harder, faster, and Brendon whines, licks into Patrick's mouth hungrily as Patrick sets up a shaky rhythm.

Their kissing devolves into the press of hot mouths against bare skin. They disentangle one pair of hands and Brendon winds his arm around Patrick's neck as Patrick's hand tucks under Brendon's thigh, pulling them harder together, tight and hot and just perfect. "Oh God, 'Trick, 'Trick, 'm close, fuck," Brendon pants in his ear, and Patrick's not sure how he doesn't come right there, other than a stubborn desire to watch Brendon fall apart beneath him, the spasm of his muscles, the way his pupils blow out as he throws his head back against Patrick's pillow. "Come on, Patrick," Brendon says a second later, hoarse and needy, and then Brendon's shoving a hand between them, pushing into Patrick's briefs and giving him glorious skin to slide against.

"Brendon, fuck," he manages before Brendon's thumb presses behind the crown of his cock and Patrick is coming hard, face pressed to Brendon's neck.

They lay there for a few minutes in the quiet dark of the cab, tangled together in a mass of clothing and sweaty limbs. Patrick traces the arch of Brendon's ribcage with his fingers. Brendon tangles his fingers in Patrick's hair, and Patrick smiles into his skin. He tries to think of something to say that will encompass this huge, warm feeling in his chest, but what comes out is, "You know, you're pretty good at this being-a-trucker thing."

Brendon laughs, his whole body shaking under Patrick's. "I know," he says, skims his knuckles over Patrick's arm. "I kind of love it, actually."

Patrick turns his face up to see Brendon smiling at him. "I'm not actually, like, a crazy loner."

"I know," Brendon says, like he's known forever, and Patrick huffs. "Shut up," Brendon says fondly, and Patrick puts his head back on Brendon's shoulder and does as he's told.

*

 _Three months later_ :

  
"This is the Ice Man, come in Goose!" Pete's voice crackles over the radio and Patrick picks it up with a laugh.

"Hey, Wentz," he says, "Brendon isn't able to talk right now, so you'll have to settle for me."

"My Top Gun! Where's Bren?"

"I'm right here," Brendon says through clenched teeth and Patrick points out the window to indicate where they need to be turning off the highway. Brendon nods, eyes fixed on the road.

"He's driving right now, Pete, so you'll have to call back for you daily dose of flirting with my boyfriend."

"Woooo!" Pete calls down the line. "Don't kill anyone, Urie!"

"Thank you," Brendon snaps and Patrick shakes his head.

"He's doing fine, he's got his permit for this and everything," Patrick tells Pete, calm and relaxed. He could get used to this passenger seat thing. Brendon's only been allowed in the driver's seat for a few runs, but he's already getting better at driving, with just a little input from Patrick when they hit hills, or traffic. "Hey, we're getting off for lunch, I'll catch up with you later, man."

Patrick helps Brendon navigate the truck through the large parking lot, snagging a spot in the back. It's cool out, enough that Brendon steals one of Patrick's caps, and Brendon leans into Patrick's warmth as they cross the street. Lois greets them at the door of the Midlands with a wide grin, and Dave waves from behind the counter. "Any booth you want, kids," she says, and Brendon and Patrick slide into one in the back, hidden enough that Patrick can slip his foot against Brendon's calf under the table unseen.

"Hey," Brendon says, mouth open in mock-surprise. "That's sexual harassment from my supervisor."

"I can't help it, you're so damn sexy when you drive," Patrick says with a grin. Brendon tosses his head back and laughs.

"Now you know how I feel," he replies, just as Lois comes up to take their order. She looks from Patrick to Brendon and back again and crosses her arms.

"Now, Patrick, I don't know if I would have pointed him out if I thought you were going to _keep_ him," she says, amused. Patrick can feel the blush creep up his neck.

"Sorry, ma'am," Brendon says, face serious. "I didn't mean to corrupt him like that." Patrick buries his face in his hands.

"Hey, well, don't do it again," Lois says with a wink and snap of her gum. "Why don't I start you boys out with some fries?"

END

  



End file.
